


Make Me A Bargain, Dear Heart

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bargaining, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Magic, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kidnapped Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Rescue Missions, Romantic Soulmates, Soul Bond, Temporary Character Death, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Torture, flirtation, self sacrificing geralt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 61,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23762638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: The first time Geralt made a deal with the fae, he was young and stupid enough to think it wouldn’t change his life.To be fair, he’d been dying at the time.______________________________Bound by the favors he owes the strange fae who'd come to his rescue, Geralt finds himself an unwilling participant a world of bargaining magic and immortal games.  Was Jaskier a friend or was he something worse than the monsters Geralt hunted?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 688
Kudos: 1510





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As you may now, I love rewriting fairy tales with darker elements and there is nothing more fun than the world of the fae. One day I'll finish the original book story I have saved away about the fae, but until then, enjoy this tale of Fae Jaskier.

The first time Geralt made a deal with the fae, he was young and stupid enough to think it wouldn’t change his life.

To be fair, he’d been dying at the time.

He was bleeding enough to turn the muddy water around him dark as pitch. The drowner he’d been sent after was motionless next to him and he spared a thought for the irony of dying like this after surviving so many impossible things, but it was weak humor.

He was barely thirty and considering if it would be better to bleed out or suffocate.

When he’d felt the ground shift beneath his feet, he’d only had a matter of moments before his legs were fully trapped in the soft silt and sand. Each time he struggled he could feel himself sinking deeper into the muck. A tree limb remained tantalizingly out of reach and no amount of casting award would bring it closer.

After an hour, he’d finally had to admit it was hopeless. He was trapped.

Geralt made a low sound in his throat. Vesemir had warned them that the Path rarely ended kindly for Witchers. They were never meant to retire in some keep like other warriors. Even Vesemir was the last of a handful of Witchers old enough to train others. He wondered if the old man would grieve him when he didn’t return to Kaer Morhen that winter.

His lips twisted in a smile without humor. He’d been so foolish to think he’d be able to be the hero of the tales he’d loved as a child. He would die here alone, rotting beside the same monster the world thought he’d become.

A branch snapped nearby and Gerat felt a thrill of hope at the sound.

“Hello?” He called, “Is anyone there?”

A voice came from his right, impossibly close for a Witchers senses to miss. Geralt jerked in surprise, cursing his bad luck to replace a drowner with an even deadlier foe—a fae.

Because what else could the impossibly beautiful man lounging across a tree branch be?

Dark brown hair the color of the bark of the old oak trees that guarded the heart of the forest curled around a face that remained eternally young. The light of the woods seemed to shine brighter around him as though it was eager to touch more of him. The fae smiled at him, preening under Geralt’s gaze and winking an impossibly blue eye at him.

“Well, well...what an unexpected surprise.”

Geralt ignored the hot flash that bloomed at the first sound of his voice and forced himself to focus on getting out of here. The only way he was getting out here was with the fae’s help. Of course, gaining the help of a fae was something Vesemir had been adamant on avoiding at all costs.

Still, it couldn’t be worse than dying here, right?

“You’re a fae,” he said slowly, trying to decide how to handle this.

The creature grinned, proud as any parent. “Got it in one,” he said, “Well done. Now, my turn...what is a Witcher doing in this part of the forest?”

Geralt gestured to the drowner carcass half submerged in the bog. “Had a contract for a drowner.”

“How exciting! It  _ was _ beginning to stink up the place.” Blue eyes traced over Geralt with obvious humor. “You have an interesting strategy, Witcher.”

Geralt decided he had no talent for subtleties so he only grunted. “I’m stuck.”

“I can see that.”

Now he  _ knew _ the fucker was laughing at him.

They stared at one another for a beat.

This time the creature’s smile was more predatory. “May I have your name?”

At least Geralt had been warned of  _ that _ particular trick. “No, but you may call me Geralt.”

He laughed, light and airy. When he looked back at Geralt, he was almost proud. “Aren’t you a clever one? The last human I spoke to was not  _ nearly _ so interesting.”

“I’m not human.”

“Close enough as far as my kind is concerned, I’m afraid,” the fae said with a dismissive wave, “Human or not, it appears you’ve found yourself in quite a predicament.”

As if in answer, Geralt felt himself sink further into the mud until it was as high as the base of his neck. He fought through the helpless panic at the sensation and tried to keep his face blank.

“What would it take for you to help me?”

All he could remember from his lessons with Vesemir about the fae was their love of polite manners and a good bargain. The problem was always the cost. They were notorious for driving bargains that were not as simple as they seemed and often did more harm in the long run.

Still, anything had to be better than dying here.

Now the thin veneer of humanity had nearly vanished from the creature’s features and its eyes bled nearly black with eager intent.

“There is little I need that I cannot gather myself.”

“So what do you want?”

He tilted his head like a cat sensing prey. “A favor.”

Geralt frowned. “A favor?”

“To be collected by me at a time of my choosing,” he continued breezily.

The Witcher winced when he sank another four inches and had to tilt his head up to keep from breathing in the mud. The fae only watched.

“What kind of favor?” He asked stubbornly.

“It’s nothing so terrifying Geralt-“ The Witcher stubbornly did  _ not  _ think of the way the fae shaped his name like he relished the taste. “-At some point in the future, I will call upon you to aid me in a way that is equal to what I’ve done for you today. Simple.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’ll die.” The words were flat. No chance of misunderstanding.

Geralt’s mind whirled even as his body continued to sink. He thought of every warning he’d been taught about the fae. He knew the tales of their cunning and wiles, their vicious games, and cruel methods of finding entertainment.

And yet it was Vesemir’s final command that lingered most in his mind:

_ Stay alive. _

So he managed to force out the words just as he sank below the surface,

“I accept your bargain.”

* * *

When Geralt opened his eyes again, he was nestled in a comfortable bed at the closest inn.

His wound had been wrapped with clean linens and he felt pleasantly rested. His armor—cleaned and dried—was hanging over a chair and a bowl of soup and glass of ale sat atop the dresser, still warm.

Slowly he sat up, frowning when he felt a sharp tug on his wrist, as though the skin was new and pinched. When he held his forearm up, he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Because there, between a smattering of freckles, was a simple dark line that stank of fae magic.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

His hands were covered in blood.

Geralt made a rough sound, fighting against the urge to panic. The body in his arms shuddered again as he ripped off his shirt and pressed it against the open slash across her stomach.

_ Her _ stomach. 

There’s no pretending the tiny, shivering mass in his arms was a monster. Whatever was left of the curse that created the striga, it had left behind a child that had already lived a life of pain and agony. 

Gods, he’d really thought he would be able to save her.

He’d tried so damn  _ hard _ . Even though he knew how difficult it would be. He’d looked at the father’s face and saw a man who might actually try to give the child a chance. He’d heard the story of lies and lust and horror and thought only about the innocent child who’d been left to bear their burden. Deep in his mind, he’d remembered the line in a forgotten book hidden among Kaer Morhen’s keep and thought,  _ I could save her. I could make this right. _

At first it had even seemed like he would succeed in his ridiculous plan.

He’d managed to keep the striga at bay through the long hours of the night. It had been little more than a gory game of cat and mouse, hampered by his desire to keep from doing any serious damage. All he had to do was survive the night. If he could keep her alive just a little longer, she could go home. She could be free.

He should have known better than to try to be a hero. He should have remembered the lesson he’d learned the first time he’d turned, covered in the life’s blood of another, only to hear the screams begin again. 

Even with all his training, he couldn’t keep himself from the choice that always came in battle--who would fall. Was Geralt willing to lay down his life to try to save a girl who’d never truly lived?

The answer, apparently, was no.

He’d reacted on instinct. Sword moving like an extension of his body. Sinking deep--too deep. Burying into the stomach of a face shifting from monster to an innocent in one shocking flash.

“Someone help!” Geralt shouted, hoping against all hope that the soldiers of the local lord who’d played his part in this tragedy would hear. Maybe their mage would be enough to save her.  _ “Help her!” _

“Only if you ask nicely.”

Geralt froze, shock overwhelming his panic in a dizzying rush. He spun, still holding tight to his makeshift bandage and took in the sight of the fae lounging indolently across a broken, rotting pew in the midst of the ruined chapel.

Despite the five years that had passed since their last encounter, there was no sign of any time passing on his beautiful face--not that Geralt expected it. Fae were immortal, unchanging. A creature dedicated to cruel mischief hidden behind a beautiful mask. The fae watched him in the shadows of the old shrine with a small smile like he knew how much research Geralt had done on the fae after their last meeting. The warnings repeated over and over by countless Witchers rumbled in his ears like an oncoming storm, but it was already too late.

“What are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely. Geralt focused on not looking down at the dark line that wrapped around his forearm like a tattoo. It itched and burned slightly, eager within to be close to its creator.

“How could I not when you were crying out so sweetly?” the fae asked, not looking bothered by the girl bleeding out in Geralt’s arms. “I couldn’t risk someone else coming along and taking advantage of you.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed on the creature. “All you want is for me to owe you another favor.”

“That is one of the many things I want from you, dear Witcher.”

“Can you save her?” The question was tempered by the heartbeat beginning to slow beneath his fingers and the glassy sheen on the girl’s eyes.

The fae barely glanced at the dying girl. “Do you think she should be? You’ll be condemning her to a life she doesn’t understand-- _ if _ she ever will. She’ll be seen as a monster.”

“It wasn’t her fault!”

“That rarely matters.”

Something in him wanted to rage at the truth of the fae’s words. It settled oddly in the air between them, like an invisible force too large for the space between them. There was something complicated hiding behind the small, humorless smile on the creature’s face--like he was waiting for Geralt to understand something.

But the smell of blood felt like it was all he could think about and the Witcher tightened his hold on the girl like he could channel some of his own strength into her fragile body.

“She deserves a chance,” he rasped, dangerously close to pleading, “ _ please _ .”

The fae’s smile went flat, a new darkness flickering through his eyes. “You should never beg to a fae. I might begin to crave it.”

Geralt ignored the shiver of anticipation that curled through his stomach at the dangerous rumble. “What do you want then?”

“You’re not ready for the answer to that question, Geralt.”

“Stop being so damned secretive and help me save her!” Geralt growled. “I’ll give you another favor if that’s what it takes.”

“You shouldn’t be so quick to offer such things,” he warned, “There are many who would take advantage of such a thing.”

Geralt’s lips twisted into a bitter line. Why should it matter what happened to him? He was a monster, just as hated as any fae or striga. The humans tolerated his presence when they needed him and the creatures he hunted hated him for what he did. No one would mourn his passing if he were to hand himself over to the fae’s cruel entertainment. 

The fae seemed to understand the direction of his thoughts because it stood and moved closer. “Fine then--I’ve never been good at passing up temptation.” He stood just outside of Geralt’s reach and put his hands on his hips. “But my price has gone up.”

Geralt glared at him. “What do you want?” 

“This time I want two favors,” he said breezily, brushing away a speck of dirt, “I can’t allow anyone to think I’m going soft.”

The girl’s heartbeat stuttered and Geralt felt his own heart lurch in response. He knew his expression was far too panicked and desperate to attempt to bargain. There wasn’t enough time. It came down to whether Geralt was willing to risk himself and his future to a fae in order to complete this impossible task.

“Fine.  _ Hurry _ .”

The fae’s eyes went bright and electric, shining with an unholy light as Geralt agreed to his terms. The thin veneer of humanity seemed to tremble beneath his skin and Geralt felt his heart speed up in anticipation--of an attack or something else, he wasn’t sure. 

“It’s a deal then.” 

As if the words released his magic, the room was flooded with the sharp scent of power and old magic. It crackled along his skin like a lightning storm, bringing with it the scent of meadowgrass and dandelions. Geralt raised his hand to shield his face when light flared out from the girl in his arms and winced when it was paired with a bone deep hum that seemed to dig into the very core of him. 

The magic seemed to pulse in hot waves, pressing against the girl’s skin until it began to knit together in front of his eyes faster than even a Witcher could claim. She sucked in a shuddering breath that Geralt subconsciously mimicked. His blood stained fingers raised to trace over the pulse in her neck, slowly growing stronger. He smiled slightly and closed his eyes as the magic began to fade. 

She would survive this. He had saved her.

Now he just had to survive the ramifications of his bargain.

The fae was watching him curiously when he opened his eyes again. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you cared for the girl? I thought Witchers didn’t have emotions…”

Geralt didn’t answer the question hidden in the last statement in favor of looking the girl over. “Will she live?”

“I always keep my promises,” the fae said with a tight smile. “We’ll have to see how well you’ll keep yours.”

“A deal is a deal.” Even if it meant more suffering on his part, he couldn’t regret his decision when he could watch the steady rise and fall of an innocent chest. “I pay my debts, fae.”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt looked up with a frown. “What?”

The fae shrugged and turned to talk away. “My name,” he called over his shoulder, “so you know who to cry out for next time.”

He disappeared before Geralt could say that he had no intention of calling for the fae again.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love fae Jaskier's style.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was surprisingly difficult to write which is part of the reason why it took so long to update. While I love writing fan fiction, I've never really found a good way to revisit key scenes without being bored by rewriting what we all know happened. Hopefully, you don't mind the gaps too much. I wanted to focus on the exciting parts and, of course, Jaskier.
> 
> Not to give away anything, but I've updated some tags now that I have a more concrete plot line in my head. If you want to be surprised, I suggest ignoring the changes--I promise it's nothing trigger worthy.

Somehow being naked and covered in selkiemore guts was infinitely worse than meeting the fae when he thought he was dying.

Geralt had just enough time to make a faint squawking noise of surprise and dismay before Jaskier was sweeping into the room a queen to her court and looking him over with interest where he sat in the bathtub. Naked. Covered in guts.

Gods, he was repeating himself in his own monologue.

He decided that however old this immortal creature was, he’d probably seen more than a fair share of genitalia so he made a show of relaxing back against the tub. His sword was still across the room with the rest of his frankly disgusting armor, but he doubted the fae would actually allow him to grab it if he was in the mood to kill him. Besides, if the fae killed him he wouldn’t be able to redeem Geralt’s favors.

Geralt carefully did not look at the three thin bands of ink that curled around his wrist. Since his last bargain, they’d begun to weave in and out of each other until they looked like vines and buds of flowers.

“Geralt,” the fae purred, “if not for the entrails, I think I’d like this look on you very much.”

The Witcher made a point of flicking away a strand of gore into the water, expression droll. “What do you want?”

He carefully did not think about the dark promise in Jaskier’s eyes when he spoke. Or the way his heartbeat hadn’t changed rhythm to indicate a lie. Or the fact that something deep inside of his chest seemed to sit up and pay attention at the unexpected sight of the fae.

“Can’t I have just missed you?” Jaskier asked, drifting around the tub to sprinkle a few bath salts into the water and surreptitiously look closer at his naked body. Geralt focused on avoiding the urge to shift under the heavy gaze.

“No. What do you want?”

The fae sighed and crouched down at the foot of the tub like a maiden in some courtly romance. “Couldn’t you at least  _ pretend _ to enjoy a bit of verbal repartee? I so rarely get the opportunity to speak to someone who isn’t akin to an infant to my kind...”

“Hmm.”

“Fine,” Jaskier huffed without any real malice, “to business then.” He stood and wandered over to Geralt’s pack to look curiously at his collection of potions and ingredients. Geralt got the impression that he didn’t enjoy sitting still for very long. When he turned back towards him, there was a feral glint in his eye, “You will join me tonight at the celebration of Queen Calanthe.”

Geralt snorted, reaching for his ale. “There’s no way I’d be caught dead at one of those parties.”

When he looked up, he jerked back at the sight of Jaskier’s eery eyes only a few inches away from him. Any bit of humanity in his glamour had leaked away beneath the raw power that seemed to radiate around him like static electricity. The hairs on Geralt’s arms stood at attention and he felt his own training rear to the surface in preparation for the violence lurking in the seastorm blue of the fae’s eyes.

Jaskier’s smile was the flicker of light before lightning struck. 

“I wasn’t asking.”

* * *

Hours later, Geralt found himself tugging at the silken doublet and poorly tailored clothing Jaskier had left for him on the bed a moment before retreating to the other room with a laugh directed at the scowl Geralt sent his way. Already, he could feel the eyes of the nobles and courtiers lingering on him with varying degrees of disdain and barely stifled horror. It was obvious that the lingering taint of the Butcher of Blaviken wouldn’t disappear easily.

In contrast, Jaskier seemed to be in his element. 

He pranced around lords and ladies in a bright pewter outfit that drew the eye and the coins from the purses of the more generous guests. More than a few pairs of eyes lingered on the tight muscles on display beneath the thin fabric and the mischief that lingered in his wicked smiles. The lute that he’d produced as soon as Geralt had stepped out of his room--clean and already uncomfortable--played a jaunty and entirely inappropriate song that highlighted the fae’s smooth voice.

It really said something about a Witcher’s reputation that the crowd was so busy watching Geralt lean against a wall that they never noticed the real threat in their midst. He supposed that was probably why Jaskier had brought him along. Still, the task of sitting through a mindlessly boring party seemed a little too dull for a fae and Geralt kept his eyes peeled for the true reason Jaskier was here.

The noblemen around him returned to their bragging once their discomfort at his presence began to grow old and he tried not to roll his eyes at their absurd stories. Crach an Crait is obnoxious enough that he spared a sympathetic glance at the pale and miserable princess waiting at the high table for her mother. The life of royalty was never one he’d envied.

A few times he caught Jaskier looking his way, but Geralt had no interest in the fae’s antics until he noticed one of the sweating, drunken courtiers approaching Jaskier with the furious walk of a man looking for blood. Even worse, Jaskier didn’t fight the hand crumpling the fabric of his doublet and shoving him against a wall. Geralt could practically taste the blood that was about to be spilled.

“Something about you reminds me of the scoundrel I once saw climbing out of my wife’s chambers!” the portly lord accused, pushing Jaskier further away from the crowd into a quieter hallway.

Geralt didn’t need to imagine how bad it would be if he succeeded.

“Well…” Jaskier began, but the other man cut in to order him to drop his trousers with an imperious tone.

“Is there a problem?” Geralt asked, a little too intensely to pass off as casual. The fae’s eyes narrowed on him a moment before his lips twitched in a smirk that was missed by the nobleman as he rounded on the Witcher.

“This is none of your concern, mutant,” the man snapped, still riding high on a wave of alcohol and self importance. Jaskier’s smile dropped into a snarl that made Geralt want to reach for his weapon.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Geralt said with as much manners as he could manage, “This...happens all the time, I’m afraid.”

Now Jaskier was focused on him, a dare in his eyes.

Driven by the urge to prove he had no intention of being pushed around by the fae, he continued smoothly, “Though he has the face of a coward and a cad--” Jaskier’s expression morphed into shock that made Geralt want to snicker, “--he was kicked in the balls by an ox when he was a child.”

The lord whirled to gape at Jaskier who looked like he was swinging back and forth between being offended and finding the exchange hilarious.

“Well, that’s…” he coughed a little into his hand, “...true.”

Immediately a look of horror grew on the nobleman’s face and he threw up his hands in a placating gesture. “Apologies.” He reached into his coat and pressed a coin into Jaskier’s hands with a sympathetic pat before jerking away like something like that was contagious. “Here. Drown your sorrows on me, eunuch.”

Geralt watched the man flee the uncomfortable situation with a smug grin. It only grew when he saw the gimlet stare leveled at him by Jaskier as he toyed with the coin in his hand.

“This was not what I had in mind when I brought you with me.”

“I’m a Witcher,” Geralt said with a shrug, “we weren’t taught manners in Kaer Morhen.”

The fae scoffed and opened his mouth to respond, but was distracted when the doors to the grand hall were thrown open to reveal the bloodied and armor-clad queen. 

Calanthe seemed to enjoy the attention and made no attempt to allow the crowd to return to their merriment. She snatched up a mug from a table on her way up the main path and grinned at the cheers and shouts for more alcohol. Geralt risked a glance to where Pavetta sat alone at the high table with a look of intense displeasure. None of the other guests seemed bothered by the princess’ obvious unhappiness--not even her mother--and were already eager to restart their ridiculous boasting.

A few minutes later, Geralt found himself the  _ second _ unwilling person trapped at the high table.

Jaskier looked annoyed by the development even as he silently tried to convey a desire for Geralt to sit back and keep from getting into any more trouble. Which forced Geralt to decide between his natural disposition for refusing to do what anyone ordered him to do and his desire to get this night over with as quickly as possible. Calanthe was hardly the first person to want to keep a Witcher at her side, reveling in the fear and power of knowing she’d kept him there. If he weren’t here to complete Jaskier’s bargain, he would have walked away as soon as she’d been distracted.

Instead, he found himself forced to play nice with a woman who had made a name for herself by butchering elves and her enemies.

“Tell me, how does a Witcher find himself attending my daughter’s wedding feast?” she asked.

Geralt kept his voice flat, hoping that she’d grow bored and move on to other targets. “I’m protecting the bard from vengeful royal cuckolds.”

“Mm,” Calanthe hummed then curled her lip at the noblemen’s antics, “Idiots, the lot of them… Still, I’m glad of your company which could prove handy. Blood will spill here tonight.”

“I’ll save the good queen’s breath,” he interrupted with a flicker of the distaste he felt for this gathering of wolves in men’s clothing. “I’m not for hire as a bodyguard. I’m only here as a...favor.”

“I’m merely pointing out that should things come to blows, I should be able to count on you to rid me of certain irritants.”

“I’ll say again. I’m not for sale.”

Calanthe turned to look at him over her wine goblet. “How perilously direct,” she mused. “I could always order you to obey me.”

“You could if I were one of your subjects.”

“Torture then. I could have my dungeon master break you apart so that you would beg to be of service to me.”

He ignored the threat in her words. “Perhaps.”

Internally he wondered if his deal with the fae would extend to dragging him away from the cells of the keep while he attempted to fulfill their deal. Fae were notoriously flighty when it came to bargains and alliances and he wondered if Jaskier’s interest in maintaining ties to a Witcher would be enough for him to waste power in saving Geralt from the torturer’s knife. He looked out at the fae in question, safely hidden beneath the guise of a bard, and told himself it would be best to put as much distance between Jaskier and Calanthe after this night.

“Everyone has their price,” Calanthe continued with a small, humorless smile, “those who survive longest know how to use that to their advantage.”

He was saved from answering by the sound of the doors opening and a new, armorclad knight entering the hall.

And, within a few minutes, Geralt understood just why the fae had wanted to attend this party.

* * *

The world around him was a writhing mass of chaotic power and the screams of the party guests.

Geralt clung to the side of the pillar he’d been flung against in an attempt to keep himself from being ripped off his feet by the winds swirling around the couple in the center. If he squinted, he could just make out the shape of Pavetta and her knight, clinging to one another as the world dissolved around them. Pavetta’s untrained and uncontrolled power was bleeding into the air around her in concussive waves that threw people and furniture alike through the air like stormwinds. It was obvious she had no control over any of it.

He cursed under his breath that he’d arrived without any of the weapons or potions that might help him stop this. Even if he decided to kill the two lovers to end their magical maelstrom, there was no guarantee now that it would be enough to halt the devastation that was looming closer. Judging by the amount of power in Pavetta and the complicated forced of a destiny thwarted, Geralt doubted if there would even be a castle standing after tonight. Maybe not even a city.

“Well this is more exciting than anticipated.” 

Somehow the fae’s voice cut easily through the noise of the violence around him. He looked relatively unsurprised by any of the chaos despite the healing cut alongside one cheek and his ruffled clothing. Jaskier gave Geralt a wild grin when the Witcher only snarled back.

“You knew this would happen!” he accused.

Jaskier settled into the wind break created by the column and looked out at the two lovers at the center of the storm. His expression was unreadable. “Contrary to popular belief, Witcher, me and my kind are not all-knowing.”

Another wave nearly sent Geralt flying out of his hiding place were it not for Jaskier grabbing the back of his tunic and hauling him back. “She’s going to bring the whole castle down around us,” Geralt shouted over the noise, “Can you stop it?”

The fae’s eyes were dark when they met Geralt’s and his lips twitched in an almost sad smile. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

“You want another fucking  _ bargain _ for this?”

Jaskier remained silent, his expression slightly hungry at the mention of another bargain.

A woman screamed as she flew across the room to slam against a wall, landing in a crumpled heap. Her husband cried out in dismay, trying and failing to reach her as the windows shattered and the stones of the castle began to shake.

Geralt cursed, long and vicious, before holding out his hand to the fae. “Fine,” he snapped, “Save Pavetta and her knight and keep her magic from killing us all.”

For the first time, he felt warm skin touch his as Jaskier reached out for his offered hand. It sent an electric thrum through his body like a rubber band snapping into place deep in his chest. His breath left his lungs in a shaky rush and he looked up in shock at the unexpected sensation only to find Jaskier looking equally surprised. 

The fae gaped at him, none of his usual mischief in his bright eyes. Instead there was a fragile sort of wonder that made Geralt want to lean forward, drawn by the unexpected sight. 

Jaskier’s voice was rough when he whispered, “Deal.”

Before Geralt could reply, he’d disappeared.

* * *

The night ended with Geralt banned from Cintra and trapped beneath the knowledge of his new Child Surprise.

Somehow that was less uncomfortable than the fact that Jaskier hadn’t returned and the strange pull in his chest seemed to ache with the loss.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think happened? >;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I've updated--it's been a crazy few weeks. I hope you enjoy this bit of plot and the beginnings of another fun experience with our favorite fae.

“That’s an interesting tattoo you have there.”

Geralt glanced up from his drink and eyed the man who’d spoken.

Bright, gaudy clothes decorated a body that was lean enough to speak of extensive travel, but pale and soft enough to prove his connection to a number of wealthy friends and clients. His hair was plastered to his head with sweat which mixed poorly with the expensive perfumes that seemed to be covering every bit of his skin. Dark hair had been carefully teased into tight curls that moved around his face in a way meant to make him look as though he’d just tumbled out of bed. There was no sign of a weapon aside from the jeweled dagger strapped to his belt and the lute peeking over one shoulder confirmed a fact that erased what little peace Geralt had gathered that night:

He was a fucking bard.

Instinctively, Geralt scanned the rest of the crowd for some sign of the  _ other _ bard that had been making his life miserable. It had been six months since the party in Cintra ended with him the owner of yet another favor and a Child Surprise. Even worse, he’d been banned from Cintra by a furious Calanthe and had been forced to travel outside of his usual routes in search of work. It had been slim pickings and led him into more than one conflict with some of the more prejudiced villages on the Continent. He was more than ready to tear into the fae for his part in Geralt’s empty belly and light purse.

“I’ve heard of people being struck dumb with awe in the wake of my singing,but never for so long,” the stranger said with a coquettish bat of his eyelashes that made Geralt want to get up and leave. Even with Jaskier’s obnoxious personality and over dramatic antics, none of his behavior felt as insincere as this interaction.

Geralt considered the bard’s words and tried to remember if all of the obnoxious noise earlier had sounded like a tune. He took a long drink of ale to avoid a response, hoping the other man would just leave him alone.

“As I was saying,” the bard continued despite Geralt’s obvious disinterest,”I’ve never seen a tattoo quite like yours.”

“Hmm.”

He didn’t bother to look down at the tattoo decorating his forearm. The dark lines were stark against skin that had become pale from all the long sleeve shirts he’d taken to wearing to avoid this sort of attention. The black line from the first bargain had been joined by several complicated designs below that resembled the stylized petals of a lotus flower. It was marked by the sharp contrast of empty space that signified the portion of the tattoo that had disappeared after Geralt completed his task by accompanying Jaskier to Calanthe’s party.

The relief of seeing some of the physical reminder of his debt to the fae was quickly replaced when he’d awakened the next day to see his new tattoo, courtesy of his request to save the same humans who’d banished him. This one was more elaborate than the others--even if Geralt had no idea why. It was a large orange blossom depicted with exquisite detail in dark ink. On one side, a single fern branch framed the simple flower.

“Where did you get it?”

For the first time, Geralt focussed his entire attention on the other man. Something about his tone was far too intense for the casual expression he was trying to maintain. There was a slight sheen of sweat nearly hidden beneath his curls and his eyes were a little too sharp.

“What’s it to you?” he growled.

The bard laughed like he’d told a joke and settled himself into the booth beside him, ignoring the curl of Geralt’s lip. “It must be a fascinating life to be a Witcher.”

“It’s bloody, brutal, and short.” 

Maybe if he didn’t cooperate with the bard’s attempts at fishing for information, he’d take a hint and leave. Geralt really didn’t want to risk losing access to the stable he’d found Roach he’d rented for the night because he punched a nosy idiot. She deserved the night of shelter even if it meant that he’d be sleeping on the cold ground.

“That’s not what the stories say,” the bard argued, “you’re practically immortal.”

“Practically doesn’t mean actually.” He carefully did not think about how many of his brothers knew that fact for certain.

“It’s a shame no one appreciates you and your kind for all the good you do for humanity. After all, there are so  _ many _ things that go bump in the night.” The man’s smile was far too vicious to be sincere and Geralt felt a new desire to reach for one of his blades. Dark eyes settled on him with an intent that seemed inhuman. “I could help you change their minds.”

Cautiously, Geralt watched him. “Is that so,” he said flatly.

“Oh yes, I’m very good at convincing people. Perhaps you could offer me some--”

A sleeve wrapped in blue silk slammed into the table as a warm body pressed against the length of Geralt’s side intimately. His nose filled with the scent of meadow grass and sunlight a moment before his eyes snapped away from the stranger to focus on a familiar face. 

Jaskier didn’t look away from where he was glaring at the other man with unholy fury. His lip curled into a snarl that sent Geralt’s heart beating faster in his chest. The fae’s hand settled possessively against his arm over his tattoos which sent a bolt of heat through the lines like they were reacting to his presence.

“Valdo,” he said with a malicious sneer, “I thought I recognized your offkey singing and hand-me-down clothing.”

The bard hissed out a breath and his eyes flashed eerily bright. “Fuck off, Dandelion. No one wants you here.”

Jaskier’s eyes went eerily bright and Geralt didn’t need the medallion humming around his neck to sense the magic building in the air around them. Oddly, none of it seemed directed toward him and he felt none of the alarm he normally did when the inhuman aspects of Jaskier became more apparent. “You’ve gone too far this time, you pompous piece of shit. Do you think the  _ aos sí  _ will overlook what you’re trying to do here? Or were you so focused on your asinine attempts at begging for scraps that you overlooked who  _ exactly _ you were propositioning?”

Geralt frowned at the description, wondering at the underlying tension. He found himself letting one hand fall from the edge of the table to the knife he had strapped to his thigh in preparation for the fight that was brewing.

Instead, he watched Valdo hiss like a cat and flash bright gold eyes at the other bard. “You’ve gone too far this time, Dandelion. She won’t let this go.”

Then there was a knife pricking at the edge of Valdo’s jawline, put there by the fae leaning over the table with deadly grace. Geralt blinked, surprised at the display of violence and the speed with which it had been meted out. He took a deep breath and tried to decide who he should be prepared to fight--Jaskier or the other fae.

That quickly Jaskier smiled and let the knife disappear into the sheathes tucked into his sleeves.

“It looks like my darling Witcher is getting bored--a side effect of your presence, no doubt,” he all but purred and looked over his shoulder towards Geralt. “Why don’t we head up early tonight?”

There was a question in his eyes and a dare. Neither of which Geralt was in the mood for after his quiet night had been ruined. 

Still...anything was better than sitting next to this asshole or getting kicked out for starting a fight.

“Fine,” he said brusquely and ignored the way Jaskier lit up in response, “but only if you’re paying.”

“Bargaining already?” the fae said in a voice deep with promise, “You’ll spoil me, love.”

Geralt didn’t respond to the fae or the affectionate nicknames, just made his way away from the booth towards the stairway that led to the rooms above. 

  


[Tattoo Inspiration](https://www.tattoodo.com/p/911073)

[Tattoo Inspiration](https://www.tattoodo.com/p/911073)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we all hate Valdo.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter made me grin. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Also, I took a shower last night and came up with an entire plot for this story that was initially meant to only be a few drabbles with fae Jaskier, so stay tuned for some excitement.

Geralt’s experience with the fae made him mostly convinced that his odds of spending the night alone in a free room were pretty good. It was obvious Jaskier liked to come and go as he pleased and Geralt was hardly going to complain about a night in a bed. 

He ignored the looks from the humans in the bar when he made his way toward the room Jaskier had indicated with the rusted iron key held tightly in one hand. Exhaustion paired with eagerness to wash away the road dirt and blood that never seemed to wash away in the rivers and ponds he usually had to make do with. Mentally, he counted up his meager coin to try to decide if he had enough for a hot bath, but had to settle for the tepid water jug and basin in the corner.

Slinging off the heavy weight of his weapons onto the ground, he contemplated the merits of remaining armed around Jaskier, but decided that the fae had had more than a few chances to kill him over the years. The odds were good that Geralt was relatively safe until his bargain debts were repaid.

Geralt stripped off his armor and black tunic with a soft sound of relief to be rid of the smelly material. His enhanced senses were a gift and a curse in his line of work and he often found himself dreaming of an imaginary world where he didn’t have to deal with gore encrusted epaulets and blood stained cotton. He hummed softly with relief when he bent over the stained tin basin and dunked his head into the water until the worst of the caked on viscera was gone. Water streamed down his back and chest to dampen the waist of his pants, but he ignored it as he scrubbed until tawny skin was nearly pink.

A sharp knock at the door made him turn and frown slightly. Thinking it was Jaskier, he prowled across the room without bothering with a shirt and pulled it open.

It wasn’t Jaskier.

An older woman bearing a scar across her face eerily similar to his own and a bad-tempered snarl that he recognized from charging barghest packs narrowed her eyes at him. “This ain’t your room,” she growled.

“My friend is staying here. He bought the room,” Geralt said evenly, trying to placate even though experience told him that it would do no good.

“We don’t serve your kind here.”

He tried not to let his temper sharpen his tone. “I didn’t ask for service, just a bed that’s already been paid for for the night.”

The tavern owner dragged her eyes over the scars littering his bare chest with an open disdain that still made a part of him want to disappear into the woods for good. “You and your kind aren’t any better than the monsters you hunt,  _ Butcher _ \--” And  _ fuck _ if that title still didn’t feel like a knife to the gut. “--Now get out of my inn before my other guests make you.”

It was hardly the first time he’d been forced out of an inn or a tavern just for being a Witcher. It wasn’t even the first time someone had hated and feared him for the rumors Stregobor had spread after Renfri’s death. He had more than a few scars to show for his run-ins with prejudiced humans and knew better than to accept the dare lingering in the woman’s eyes.

“Fine,” he growled and started to turn back to the room for his stuff when another voice cut in.

“Geralt? What’s going on?”

The tavern owner looked over for a brief moment at Jaskier before returning her glare to Geralt. “This beast was just on his way, bard.”

Jaskier’s face went curiously flat. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll not have murderers and beasts under my roof,” she continued, oblivious to the creature standing only a few feet away from her.

Silently, Geralt turned and gathered his meager belongings with a few hurried motions. He didn’t bother to pull his armor on, just dug a clean shirt out of his bag and tossed his gear over his shoulder.

“We had a bargain,” Jaskier said in a low, dangerous voice. At first, he thought the fae was speaking to him, but when he looked up, Jaskier’s blue eyes were fixed on the inn’s owner.

Oblivious to the threat standing beside her, the woman only sneered. “You’re lucky I don’t kick you out too for trying to sneak this one into the room. The town would’ve hanged you both.”

“I paid good coin for the room,” he bit out and Geralt felt his shoulders tensing at the emotion simmering beneath each syllable. Clearly the fae had not witnessed the prejudice against nonhumans first hand. After all, he was safe beneath his own magic and glamour, but that wouldn’t help him if he ran afoul of the villagers.

“It’s fine,” Geralt cut in brusquely, “no need for violence on my account.”

He said it to Jaskier, but it was the woman who responded, calling after him, “And take that nag out of my stables when you go!”

The insult landed where the others hadn’t and Geralt was seething by the time he’d reached the main room. Almost instantly, the rumble of voices halted into tense silence that matched the cold sneers on the men’s faces and the weight of their eyes on the swords hanging over his back. He had no doubt that were he a little more injured or a little less wary, he wouldn’t have made it through the night.

As it was, Geralt managed to make his way out of the inn without the violence simmering in the air catching fire. The night air was sharp enough to remind him that it wouldn’t be long before he needed to go north to Kaer Morhen to hide away from the winter. His stomach rumbled loudly enough that he thought longingly of the thick stews Vesemir cooked and the dried venison that came with the thin herds of deer that ventured into the mountains. He sucked in a breath of cold air and firmly ignored his body’s protests when he turned towards the stables.

Roach was less than impressed with the return of her traveling partner, judging by the way her ears went flat against her skull.

“I know, I know,” he soothed as he pulled her out of her warm stall and began to assemble her tack in the near darkness, “At least you got your supper before they ran us out.”

She was less than impressed, but followed beside him easily enough. The meager light from the stars above them was barely enough for him to make out the rough path of dirt that passed for a road. He wouldn’t risk Roach rolling her ankles in the dim lighting so he forced his tired muscles to keep him upright and moving long enough to put the tiny village behind him. Experience had taught him not to trust the peace of the moment to protect him against the bravery that came with crowds and cheap ale.

It was why he tensed at the sound of footsteps hurrying in his direction and only relaxed minutely when he finally recognized the heartbeat.

Jaskier.

The bard looked a little frazzled as he slung his lute further up over his shoulders while he fidgeted with the lacings of his boot with one hand. “Ah, Geralt! There you are.”

Geralt frowned at the cheerful greeting, turning to watch the fae’s approach. “What do you want?”

“What makes you think I want something?” he answered with a bit of a pout.

“Experience.” 

Jaskier chuckled, looking pleased for some reason. He tilted his head in a curious expression. “You aren’t frightened of me, are you?”

“Killing me now would mean I didn’t repay my debts to you,” Geralt said with a shrug, “perhaps after.”

Instead of looking offended, Jaskier beamed at him. “Such a pragmatic warrior you are.”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What do you want, Jaskier?”

“Ah, yes. I’ve decided I’ll be joining you for a while--need some more inspiration for my next song and you, my dear, have adventure practically oozing out of your pores--” Geralt snorted and Jaskier ignored him to continue, “--Besides, I need to protect my investments.”

Mouth twisting into a grimace, Geralt resolutely did not look at the sleeve that only barely covered the tattoo imprinted on his skin. The thought of Jaskier following him around just to force him to repay his bargains made something deep in his chest go cold. Resolutely, he ignored the bizarre sensation.

“You should have at least gotten use of the warm bed you spent good coin on. The road is hardly known for its comforts.”

Jaskier fell into step beside him with a grim look. “Does that happen often?”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” the fae snapped. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Geralt carefully didn’t think of how gentle the night’s experience had been compared to so many other examples of human cruelty. He shrugged instead.

“What about villages where you’ve completed a contract?” Jaskier pressed.

“Humans don’t like to be reminded of what happens to the bastards and orphans of Kaer Morhen, nor the evidence of their own weakness,” Geralt said, soothing his memories away with a hand over Roach’s warm shoulder.

There was a long moment of silence.

“I didn’t know,” Jaskier finally murmured, “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

Surprised by the unexpected sincerity, Geralt shrugged again and trained his eyes on the road ahead. “I envy you your glamour at times.”

“Glamours cannot disguise cruelty, nor the character that comes with suffering and continuing to serve despite it.”

Whatever he said in response seemed to be trapped in a too-tight throat.

Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. “Besides, I could hardly remain in a place so eager to break a simple bargain.”

Geralt opened his mouth to respond--

**_BOOM_!**

The earth shuddered beneath their feet and Geralt whirled, one hand on his sword, before his eyes settled on the plume of bright fire that surged above the treetops.

He gaped, unable to understand what could have happened to cause such a blaze in the town they’d just left. There had been at least a dozen men in the tavern when he’d left and he doubted anyone could have missed the explosion within at least a league. He’d only seen the like amongst war mages on the battlefield--not sleepy villages in the middle of nowhere.

What could have caused such devastation?

With slowly dawning understanding, Geralt turned to stare at the fae next to him.

Jaskier didn’t look back at the flames, just whistled a jaunty tune and continued ambling down the road.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's hear it for our favorite feral fae. :))


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for how long it's been since I've given you a new chapter. I wanted to try to finish up a few of my other projects while this story wasn't on a cliff hanger and it took longer than expected to catch up. 
> 
> Hopefully this action packed chapter will make up for the wait!

As long as he’d been on the Path, Geralt was convinced there were few things that could surprise him.

Somehow Jaskier always managed it.

___________________________________

“Gerrr-aaaallllt,” the whine made him clench his teeth and look to the heavens for guidance, “I’m tired of walking.”

If someone told him a month ago that he would be traveling with a whiney, obnoxious fae willingly, Geralt would have laughed in their face.

Since their odd meeting at the tavern, Jaskier had remained attached to Geralt’s side like a fungus. 

For a creature who was designed to be more in tune with the magic of the earth and wilds, he was ridiculously unhappy with the process of traveling and camping as they traveled. He made that very clear. Repeatedly.

“My boots are absolutely ruined, you know. I bought these from a delightful shop back in Novigrad--you really should try to upgrade your wardrobe sometime, Geralt--and they are absolutely one of a kind. I’ve had so many compliments about them; it really is a tragedy.”

And he never fucking. stopped. talking.

Geralt ducked beneath a branch and grinned at Roach when Jaskier yelped behind him as it thwacked into his face.

“Oh, you  _ ass _ ,” Jaskier snapped, “you did that on purpose!”

It was probably stupid to purposely irritate the fae, but Geralt’s patience and Jaskier’s constant  _ Jaskierness _ was a potent combination. If he wasn’t chattering or complaining about the walking, he was mindlessly playing his lute or stringing together bits and pieces of lyrics. The quiet that usually followed Geralt into the woods and fields of the Continent had disappeared as soon as Jaskier made his appearance.

“You’re welcome to leave if you’d like.” Geralt’s voice was as sharp as his thinning patience. “The nearest town is just over the ridge.”

“Excellent! Maybe they’ll have a good tavern!”

Geralt sighed.

* * *

It was hard to say who was more shocked the first time Jaskier began to play the intricately carved lute--Geralt or the villagers.

Even worse was what he chose to sing about.

“When a humble bard, graced to ride along with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song..”

Geralt gaped at him from the table at the back of the tavern, cheeks burning when several people snapped their heads to watch him as Jaskier continued his ridiculous song. He growled under his breath at them and gulped the rest of his drink in one long swallow. 

Later, when Jaskier returned to their table with flushed cheeks and fuller pockets, Geralt leveled him with the fiercest glare he could manage this far into his cups.

“Well, what did you think?” Jaskier asked, winking at the blushing barmaid who’d brought him a drink.

“I think you’re full of shit.”

“I do admit to...being flexible about the details.”

“You  _ think _ ?” Geralt snapped back, “All of it was bullshit.”

Jaskier sighed as he took a deep gulp of his mead then he looked over at the Witcher with a surprisingly serious expression. “What are you really upset about, Geralt? Or is this your first time to hear a bard sing a ballad.”

“You’re not a bard, you’re a fae.”

He fluttered a dismissive hand. “Semantics. I prefer to do a bard’s work.”

“All of it was a lie.”

Jaskier hummed lightly. “Not  _ all _ of it.”

“Oh? So did I forget the battle between us and ‘hordes of elves’? Surely, you could have at least handled a few.”

“Perhaps that was a _ tiny bit _ of an overstatement.”

Despite himself, Geralt snorted at Jaskier’s pleased grin. “Witchers don’t need any help adding to our legend.”

“Ah, my dear, that is where you’re wrong,” Jaskier said as he leaned forward like he was sharing a secret, “It occurs to me that you and your brethren are not very popular among humans.”

Geralt stared at him with a dry expression. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Quiet, you.” The fae doesn’t seem bothered by the obvious disdain in his voice, too excited by half to stop now. “What you and your people  _ need _ is a better reputation among the population that you protect.”

“And singing about slaying thousands of your kin is going to do that?”

“Filavandriel has far more pressing matters at hand than worrying about some rumors about them being killed off by a Witcher,” he replied easily, “but you need to  _ become _ something that only a bard can manage.”

“Obnoxious?”

“Even better--a hero.”

“Hmm.” Geralt wasn’t sure how to answer that in a way that won’t take away the excited glimmer in Jaskier’s eyes. He decided the better part of valor was discretion and let a somewhat peaceful silence fall between them. 

The barmaid returned with two heaping plates of food and Geralt couldn’t quite hide his surprise when one was set in front of him. It looked fresher than anything he’d ever received in a human establishment and his stomach rumbled excitedly. He pulled it closer so he could hover protectively over it and shovel a bit into his mouth.

Jaskier barely waited for the woman to leave before turning to Geralt with a pleased grin. “See?”

“Hmm.”

* * *

From there it became almost a ritual: Geralt would arrive in each town in search of new contracts while Jaskier made his way over to the tavern to sing for his support.

By the time he returned--bloodied and battered--Jaskier would have already charmed every human in the region with his songs and personalities. None of them ever seemed to suspect that Jaskier wasn’t truly one of them and Geralt wasn’t quite ready to take that away from him. Besides, since they’d started traveling together, Geralt wasn’t shortchanged by half as many people and his food was rarely served cold or inedible now. He had a warm fire to sleep beside most nights and an odd sort of companion to keep the loneliness at bay.

It was better than most of his kind ever managed.

* * *

By the time the first month had passed, Geralt was busier than he could ever remember being in all his years.

There were always contracts for Witchers if you knew where to look, but this was something else entirely. He barely managed to complete one task before another was lined up and waiting. 

It was beginning to wear on him if he was honest. Long days spent tracking and hunting were interspersed with hours of foraging for plants to replace his dwindling potions. His gear was already showing all of the wear and tear of the constant battles. His body was worse. 

Even Jaskier had been surprisingly helpful in the last few weeks. The bard was always there to greet Geralt after a long hunt with a tavern room and a hot bath to pair with the plates of food he always managed to procure no matter what time of night he returned. He helped pull off blood stained armor and stitch up wounds with well-timed quips to distract him from the pain that made his hands shake. The fae was surprisingly adept at ignoring Geralt’s growls as he performed something a foolish man might mistake for caring.

Still, there was no amount of magic or patching that could make up for the lack of sleep and proper rest. Geralt found himself slaughtering a pack of barghest who’d ripped through the herds of cattle at the edge of a prosperous town. Then it was a coven of vampires led by a fucking bruxa preying on travelors on the main road followed by drowners along the river. 

Now there was nothing left to do but limp back into the town with the head of a warg dangling from his belt and an ache in his side from the gashes that lined his side. He could feel the blood dripping down into his pants.

“Geralt!”

He looked up at the sound of the familiar voice and found Jaskier hurrying toward him. Geralt glanced toward the moon briefly as the fae moved closer. “It’s late,” he said in surprise, “I thought you’d be sleeping.”

“You were supposed to get back hours ago.” Jaskier frowned as he took in the state of the Witcher. “You look awful--are you hurt?”

“Looks like you’ll get another chance to work on your sewing skills.”

The fae made a disgruntled noise, but braced Geralt along his injured fae, supporting his weight as they walked toward the tavern. Geralt focused on not thinking about how comforting it had become to smell the scent of meadow grass and summer storms. Or how often they found themselves curling closer to one another when the nights got cold.

The sound of hoofbeats made both of them go still with new tension.

A lone rider broke through the treeline at a gallop. Geralt caught the scent of blood and straightened before the wounded child slide off the back of her horse and onto the ground. Without a word, both of them ran toward the fallen rider.

Jaskier reached out and gently touched the child’s face, barely a handful of years old. “She’s barely conscious, poor thing. Geralt, do you think you can--”

The girl’s eyes fluttered as she blinked up at him and then sharpened on Geralt’s face. With shocking speed, she latched onto his wrist. “Witcher.”

“What happened?” Geralt managed, startled by the vehemence in her tone.

“A monster,” she said, dark eyes wide and shocky, “Came out of the skies.”

He frowned at the description. “What did it look like?”

Her eyes stared off at an unseen point. “It flew off with my da,” she whispered before looking back at Geralt. “Do you think he’s okay?”

Jaskier looked at him with a painful expression, but the Witcher only brushed away a curl from her face with as much gentleness as he could muster. “Jaskier is going to take you into the tavern there--you’ll be safe with him.”

“Geralt, you’re hurt,” the fae protested, but Geralt only shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter. If it’s what I think it is, then we don’t have time to wait.”

Jaskier made another sound of protest that Geralt ignored in favor of limping over to where he’d left his packs. He rifled around inside to avoid the sounds of panic from the humans inside the tavern while he decided what he needed to do next.

The only creatures capable of carrying off a full grown man was a wyvern or a dragon. Both creatures were hardly known for attacking humans unbidden, but he could be relatively certain that a dragon was smart enough to avoid risking the humans’ wrath. A wyvern, however…

He didn’t manage to get out of the city before Jaskier caught up with him. 

“Geralt, wait!”

“You’d be better off with the humans, Jas,” he said tiredly. He didn’t have the energy to waste on arguing with the fae tonight.

“And  _ you’d _ be better off with a healer!” Jaskier sounded out of breath as he came up alongside him. “You’re injured. Or have you forgotten?”

“I have work to do.”

Jaskier dragged at his arm until he was forced to stop and face the furious immortal. “Why are you doing this? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“This is my  _ job _ , Jaskier,” he growled, “I don’t get to choose when I am needed.”

“So you’ll die to save the same humans that flinch at the very sight of you? Who refuse to serve you even their cheapest wine to keep you from staying there longer?” Jaskier’s voice rose until he was nearly vibrating with rage. “Do you think that will make them love you?”

Geralt flinched like he’d been struck and turned away without a word.

“I could stop you, you know,” the fae murmured quietly, “I could call on one of your favors to keep you here.”

“So do it.”

He waited for the words that would force him to halt, to turn around and walk back into the town like a dog to heel. The words that would break the fragile truce between them and return them to the animosity that should temper their relationship.

They never come.

* * *

It was possible, Geralt decided, that Jaskier might have been right to tell him to stay behind until his wounds were healed.

Not that it mattered much now, he thought as he flew through the air to slam into the rocky slope. The impact felt like it rattled every bone in his body and ripped the breath from his lungs. He rolled, barely avoiding the next slash that would have severed his head from his spine and winced as the wyvern arched its neck and  _ shrieked _ .

If he’d been up against a normal wyvern, he might have stood a chance, but this...this was something else entirely.

The royal wyvern was easily fifteen feet tall and towered above him with malicious focus. It’s tawny scales were mottled with the blood of the child’s family and their piteous livestock. Viscera dripped from fangs that extended at least a foot from its maw and paved the way to the greedy maw. It was no doubt full after feasting on its last victims, but was unwilling to pass up such easy prey.

Not that he’d been truly easy to pin down--Geralt had carved a deep line into the muscles beneath its left wing and insured it was trapped on the ground until it healed. A cynical part of him hoped that the injury would be enough to kill the beast even after he was dead, but he doubted it was that serious. The harsh reality was that Geralt was about to die here--alone and in pain--with Jaskier’s furious words still lingering in his ears.

He glanced down at the tattoo on his wrist as the wyvern advanced and felt a desperate sort of hope rise in him. He licked his lips. “Ja--”

Before he could complete the name, the wyvern was on him and it was all he could do to grab the creature by its jaws before they closed around his middle.

Geralt grunted with effort, his face blasted with the warm breaths of the beast above him as they struggled to see which of them would falter first. A wing buffeted his side, sending agony screeching through his veins, but he only gritted his teeth to muffle his scream. 

If he was going to die here, he was taking this fucker with him.

His muscles trembled with the strain and the wyvern used its weight to push its jaws closer to its target. Geralt snarled up at it, managing a weak Quen to keep the next blow from its wing from clipping his head and sending him sprawling. Blood and saliva ran freely down his arms, making his precarious grip even more unsteady.

Then, there was a scream of rage somewhere to his left and an unseen force slammed into the wyvern’s side.

The creature shrieked in surprise and pain as it rolled across the ground. Geralt caught sight of the fae’s eyes--glowing blue and unearthly--in the moonlight before he turned back on the beast. 

Whatever bit of surprise that had allowed the first hit to land faded beneath the royal wyvern’s fury at losing his prey and it snapped with painful force at Jaskier. The fae darted out of the way before the bite could land, but it was close enough that Geralt felt his heart lurch with fear. He forced himself to roll to his knees so he could clamber to his feet and reach for the sword he’d lost moments before.

Mustering the last of his strength, he took advantage of the wyvern’s distraction and lashed out with his silver sword to cut through the fragile webbing of its wing. It screamed in pain and surprise, trying to turn back towards him, but Jaskier struck it again with his own magic. Geralt circled, forcing the creature to fight a two sided battle against the two of them.

“Jaskier,” he called, when the creature turned to face him next, “the ledge!”

The fae’s eyes darted between the Witcher and the edge of the rocky outcropping where their battle continued. He could see the moment where Jaskier saw what Geralt intended because he faltered slightly, eyes going wide, but there wasn’t enough time to argue.

When Jaskier’s magic slammed into the wyvern’s face again, Geralt summoned the last of his fading strength and magic and hurled himself into the creature’s side. It stumbled and he twisted his fingers into the familiar symbol of Aard, aiming for the ground beneath its feet.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as the wyvern reached out desperately to try to save itself from the crumbling ledge below it, but it was already too late. With both of its wings damaged, it could only fall into the rocky crevice below to land bodily against the ground.

Geralt took in the sight in the last second before he slid forward as well, off balanced and too close to get to safety. His arms windmilled, searching for something to hold onto when there was only smooth stone. Then--

A hand closed around his bicep, stopping him before he could fall into the empty air below. He looked up to see Jaskier, panting and cursing, as he pulled the larger man forward with a bit of extra magic. 

They collapsed in a heap, gasping for air. Geralt’s muscles trembled with leftover adrenaline and fatigue from the battle--too far gone to do more than pant up at the sky. Jaskier’s hand remained tightly latched around Geralt’s arm like he was afraid he might still fall, but Geralt was too tired to comment.

They lay there, looking up at the scattered stars above them until their breaths slowed and their bodies began to ache--unwilling to speak and break the fragile peace.

When his side began to throb again, Geralt gave a tired grunt and got to his feet, reaching out a hand to pull Jaskier up too. The fae looked surprised for a vulnerable second before accepting Geralt’s hand and surveying the devastation wrought by the royal wyvern. 

“I don’t understand,” Geralt said. 

“Seems simple enough to me,” Jaskier replied with his eyes on the twitching corpse far below them, “it is dead and we are not.”

“I mean the wyvern itself—it shouldn’t even be in this region. They usually avoid cities and humans in favor of their mountain aeries.” The Witcher stared up at the night sky like he could see the faraway mountain range. “What could have driven it so far from its home?”

“Maybe it was sick,” Jaskier offered, sounding disinterested, but Geralt saw the way his eyes had hardened. 

“Hmm.”

“Either way this should be more than enough to ensure a night in a proper bed with a hot bath.” The fae rubbed his hands with glee at the prospect and Geralt finds his lips twitching into a fond smile. 

“I’ll never understand why you don’t just use your magic to procure a bed and bath if you want it so badly.”

Jaskier grinned at him. “That would take all the fun out of it.” His smile faded slightly when he continued softly, “Besides, magic always comes with a price.”

Geralt considered pressing the issue but settled for shrugging and starting toward Roach on tired legs. “You seem awfully sure that I’ll share my pay with you, fae.”

The indignant squawk was loud enough to bring another grin to Geralt’s mouth and he was grateful Jaskier couldn’t see it from where he was hurrying to catch up. It wouldn’t do to have the fae thinking they were anything more than unwitting traveling companions bound by their bargains. Even if that was becoming harder to remember with each passing day. 

Neither of them mentioned the fact that Jaskier hadn’t forced Geralt to bargain for his help this time. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the relative peace of these chapters--plot lies ahead! 
> 
> As always, your comments are what keep me writing until all hours of the night and day. Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why would I ever pass up the chance to have another Witcher cameo?

Things changed after the wyvern hunt.

It was becoming difficult to dismiss the budding relationship between them as being bound by their bargains. Bargain magic didn’t explain the way Geralt began to look forward to getting back to camp after a long hunt because he knew Jaskier would be waiting. Jaskier, who’s taken to combing through the tangles and knots in his hair and braiding it back out of Geralt’s face with gentle fingers. Jaskier, who Geralt caught talking to Roach in a low voice and feeding her treats any time they go to a market.

He found himself watching the fae with a confusing mixture of emotions. A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Vesemir warned him against trusting the fae. That they had eternities to perfect ensnaring their prey. It wasn’t like Jaskier had ever promised Geralt anything more than getting what he wanted out of their bargains. A Witcher represented years of potential benefits for an immortal. He was glorified prey, nothing more.

So, Geralt tried to hold onto the crumbling walls he’d built between the two of them.

He kept his responses to grunts and monosyllabic answers. He placed his bedroll on the opposite side of the fire from Jaskier to avoid the urge to curl closer when the nights were cold. He took his time coming back to camp after completing a job and waved away Jaskier’s attempts to fuss over any injuries.

It helped that he was still responding to the abnormal number of contracts for violent attacks lately. The summer months usually meant drowners and noonwraiths, not packs of Arachas hunting merchants or pairs of griffins nesting in new territories. When he’d managed to send off a message to Eskel and the other Witchers in his school, he found them in the same position. More monsters did mean that the flagging Witcher population was going to rebuild overnight. 

For a long time, Geralt was too tired to truly wonder about why it was so odd that creatures were behaving so strangely. Centuries of Witchers had dedicated their lives to studying the movements of migratory beasts and their hunting patterns. All of which ensured that every Witcher knew something was wrong--they just weren’t sure what. For his part, Geralt was too busy trying to avoid a death that felt like it was crawling closer each day to worry about what it all meant.

But even that peace was too fragile to last.

They were working on borrowed time.

Soon enough one of the others would be taken down by an injury or slowed by exhaustion. None of them ever expected a retirement, but now he was looking at his own end coming with all the speed and certainty of an arrow. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

“Son of a bitch--Geralt!”

The Witcher in question looked up blearily from his meal at the sound of his name and found a familiar brawny figure cutting through the crowd of humans drinking away the evening. Somewhere among them Jaskier was egging them on to new heights of revelry and drunkenness. A slow smile bloomed on Geralt’s face as recognition cut through his exhaustion.

“Eskel,” he greeted as he stood and accepted the affectionate embrace from the other man. They both scanned each other for new injuries out of habit and some of the tension left their muscles when nothing life-threatening was found. “What are you doing here?”

“There was a report of a dead Witcher a few towns over,” Eskel said quietly, “Some of the rumors even claimed the poor bastard had white hair.”

_ I thought it was you _ , he didn’t say.  _ I had to be sure. _

Geralt hummed, lips flattening in a sympathetic line for his fallen comrade. “Did you recognize him?”

“One of the Vipers, I think. Some enterprising fool had already stolen his medallion by the time I got there.”

“What got him?”

Eskel let out a breath as he settled into the chair next to Geralt and signaled for a drink. Geralt nudged what was left on his plate over without a word. “If I had to guess I’d say it was the group of fleders I finished off.”

“Hmm.” 

Fleders were hardly the glorified end most Witchers expected when they were young and foolish enough to believe there was such a thing as a ‘glorified end’ to their lives. On their own, they’d probably not be enough to kill a well trained hunter. In a group it would still be difficult, but if the Viper had been struggling like the rest of them to manage the sudden influx of monsters, perhaps he’d gotten sloppy.

“Have you heard anything from Lambert or Vesemir?” he asked.

“Ran into Lambert outside of Kovir a few weeks back,” the other Witcher said, “He said the old man has only been taking a few contracts here and there.”

Geralt was careful not to think about how few of them there were left. Their school has only a handful of tired, scarred men now and there was no real chance of that ever changing. It was difficult to try to summon up the implacable resolve that life would continue on when it was becoming more and more obvious that that was no longer true. Not for his kind and not for the humans they were protecting.

“I take it you’re having the same overload of contracts as I am,” Eskel grunted when he’d polished off the rest of Geralt’s stewed potatoes.

“I’m on my fourth this week.”

“Has there been any patterns for you? Any indicators about why the beasts are acting so strangely?”

Geralt shook his head. “Nothing that makes sense.”

“ _ Nothing _ about this makes sense.” They both paused when the barmaid brought over a fresh plate of food for Eskel and more drinks. “I checked with Aretuza and a few of my contacts at Ben Ard. Neither of them are claiming responsibility which I wouldn’t believe except they’re both convinced the other group is behind it.”

“Who else could it be?” Geralt grumbled, “They didn’t just up and decide to retake the regions humans control. Not en mass.”

“Maybe something chased them out of their own territories.”

Neither of them wanted to contemplate the kind of power it would take to send so many monsters into areas where they were almost guaranteed to be hunted by Witchers and humans. A creature or force like that would be too much for the tiny army of Witchers to ever manage on their own. It would mean devastation or a new era of war for the survival of mankind. Geralt wasn’t even sure he was willing to defend them after so many years of lurking in their shadows.

Eskel seemed to notice his dark mood and nudged his shoulder gently. “What I wouldn’t give to just fight a simple fucking fae for a change of pace,” he said with dark humor.

Geralt carefully didn’t think about the blue eyed fae who’d been traveling with him for months now. He took a long gulp of his drink before muttering, “No fae is ever fucking simple.”

* * *

Something about Eskel’s complaint lingered in Geralt’s mind.

Despite the fact that he had faced all manner of creatures--even some he’d only recognized from books-- in the last few weeks, Geralt was surprised when he realized that he hadn’t had any complaints about the Sidhe. Fae were usually smart enough to stay off the radar of most Witchers whenever they could. They thrived on trickery, after all--not widespread violence and mayhem. It wouldn’t do to have their plots foiled by a Witcher who would only be interested in solving the problem permanently.

But they remained the only nonhuman creature that seemed unaffected by mass migrations and battles for new territory.

It had to mean something. The fae would be the first to see the signs of wars to come and take advantage of it. They would be busy whispering in the ears of political leaders and finding ways to turn their discomfort into a victory.

The thought kept him quiet and pensive when they left the tavern a day later. Eskel had already moved on to find a region that wasn’t already protected by a Witcher with the promise to communicate more often with Geralt. Neither of them wanted to risk losing another friend and soldier in their own private war.

Jaskier was still riding the high of his performance and the love of the men and women watching him. He strummed his lute idly, singing lines of long-forgotten songs as he walked. Geralt wondered how many lifetimes had passed since they were well known.

“Why choose to be a bard?” he asked abruptly.

The fae paused, tilting his head as he considered him. “Why not? My people have always loved the arts.”

“I thought your people were unable to create new things.”

“The fae cannot create like mortals do--it’s part of why most hate them so,” Jaskier answered with rare honesty. “Creation takes power and most of my people prefer to save their power for more...ambitious things.”

“And you?” Geralt stopped walking so he could focus fully on Jaskier. “What do you use your power for?”

“Saving grumpy Witchers mostly.” Jaskier’s smile was a little too heavy for the light tone he was reaching for. “Why the questions, Geralt?”

“Just wondering what game you’re playing with me.”

A frown. “The only  _ game _ I’m playing is proving that Valdo is the worst bard of all time.”

“Valdo is fae, like you. I’d think you’d get along.”

“I’m going to let that one slide because you’ve only met that bastard once,” Jaskier snarled, “but we are  _ nothing _ alike.” The fierceness in his voice made something in Geralt want to reach for his weapon, but he forced himself to remain still. Jaskier’s eyes flicked over him like he sensed the effort it took because he softened deliberately. “I am a  _ much _ better bard.”

There was a long moment of silence where Geralt debated continuing to press Jaskier for more details or letting the subject drop.

Finally, he asked, “You said the fae couldn’t create without using their power. How are you able to make music?”

“How am I able to make music so well?” Jaskier paraphrased with a preening smile, “I was given the gift voluntarily.”

Geralt frowned, curious. “What?”

“A human chose to give me their talent.” The fae’s eyes looked distant in a way that made it obvious that he was remembering a time long past.

“How did you convince them to do that?”

Then it was Jaskier’s turn to frown at him. “I didn’t convince him--he offered it up.”

“Hmm,” Geralt rumbled, beginning to walk down the path once more. “And what did you give him in return?”

The fae looked a little bemused at the thought. “He was my friend. Julian and I passed many years together, travelling the Continent as minstrels. It’s one of the many reasons why I’ll always be better than Valdo--he stole his songs. When Julian grew too old to follow the Path, he gave me his gift and told me to continue in his memory.” A deep sadness lingered in those odd blue eyes as he stared off in the distance. For several minutes they didn’t speak, lost in the memories of friends long gone. “Immortality is a lonely prospect for those like us.”

They stared at each other with rare understanding. 

The thought of the fae becoming friends with a mortal seemed impossible only months ago, but Geralt couldn’t imagine claiming the grief in Jaskier’s expression was an act. There were too many memories there. It was too similar to the way he felt each time he started up the paths toward Kaer Morhen and thought of just how many Witchers would be missing that winter. Soon enough, it might be him that his brothers raised a glass to.

Despite Jaskier’s rare honesty about his long-dead friend, Geralt still couldn’t get over the growing suspicion that there was something he’d missed in the last few weeks with the fae. Eskel’s lament over the lack of activity from the fae only cemented his growing theory that there was something else going on. Something that would explain why so many creatures and monsters were roaming the Continent, hunting as though they had nothing to fear.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said and watched the fae stop and turn to face him with an arched brow, “you would tell me if you knew why there’s been so much creature activity, right?”

“Why would I keep secrets from you, dear heart?”

Somehow, the words offered no comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thick plotens.


	8. Chapter 8

Geralt limped back to camp with the last bit of his energy. 

At his approach, Roach lifted her head from the patch of wildflowers she was eagerly cutting short to wicker a greeting. Her nostrils flared at the scent of blood and he couldn’t manage more than a grunt in her direction. She rumbled under her breath and went back to her meal.

He scanned the campground, frowning when he didn’t see Jaskier. The fae had been busy fixing up ‘his masterpiece’ when Geralt had left to complete another contract. He found the lute sitting beside the neat pile of their packs, but there was no sign of its owner.

“Jaskier?” he called out, giving in to the temptation of leaning against the closest tree.

There was a long gash down his right leg and he was certain one of his shoulders was dislocated after smashing into a tree. The pack of wargs wouldn’t normally be difficult to take out, but everything felt insurmountable against the endless line of hunts waiting for him. His head throbbed dully with the beginnings of a migraine that his enhancements couldn’t be bothered to address when there were pressing injuries to handle. It wouldn’t be long before his healing was delayed to that of a human’s--then it would only be a matter of time before he fell for good.

The sound of footsteps hurrying through the trees broke him away from the mindless stupor he’d fallen into and he looked up in time to see Jaskier breaking through the trees nearby. He knew the fae must have made his approach audible for his sake and it soothed some of the tension in him for a reason he didn’t want to identify. 

“Ah, Geralt! I was hoping you’d be back soon,” he greeted cheerfully.

Some of his smile died when he took in Geralt’s ragged appearance. He set the two rabbits he must have trapped next to the wood for a fire and walked over. Each movement was carefully steady, smooth enough not to set off the Witcher’s jagged nerves.

“Are you alright, Geralt?” he murmured softly.

Geralt grunted--too tired to try for words. None of them would be able to summarize the weariness that clung to him or the growing understanding that he was facing his last days on this earth. 

The sensation of a hand brushing against his swollen shoulder joint made him startle before going still once more. Jaskier tsked under his breath when his fingers carefully felt along the distended flesh. “What have you done to yourself, silly Witcher? You’re beginning to fall apart.”

Geralt didn’t protest the gentle nudge in the direction of the logs settled near their campfire and let himself collapse onto the grass. The fae followed him down more gracefully, moving close enough to brace the Witcher when he needed it. Neither of them mentioned how easy it was becoming to rely on the other despite the knowledge of how forbidden it was.

With quick fingers, Jaskier tugged and pulled each of Geralt’s battered pieces of armor and set them in a neat pile nearby. Each piece revealed more cuts and bruises that turned Geralt’s skin into a mottled landscape of pain. Fingers calloused from playing the lute deftly cleaned the worst of the dirt and blood away with a spare bit of cloth while the Witcher remained silent and barely upright.

“You can’t keep this up forever, Witcher.”

Geralt blinked away the urge to just fall asleep still covered in mud and blood to meet Jaskier’s somber gaze. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You could always run away from this,” Jaskier said with a failed attempt at levity. “Start a life as a sculptor’s muse perhaps.”

“Witchers don’t retire.”

The fae’s smile died a cold death and Geralt was reminded of just how inhuman his companion when the air seemed to shiver in warning. “So all you have to look forward to is  _ death _ ?”

Geralt shrugged. “This is the life I chose when I completed the Trials.”

“Geralt...you were a child--an, an  _ abandoned _ child. You didn’t know what you were agreeing to.”

There was a mixture of grief and fury in the words, matching the power simmering around them. Instead of being frightened, Geralt felt something in him warm at the thought of Jaskier being angry on his behalf.

“Will you grieve for me, fae?” Geralt asked in a rare display of softness. “When I go to my last hunt?”

Something shifted between them, fragile and burning as their bargains. Jaskier’s face went eerily still before he sighed and looked down at the fresh blood speckling his hands. There was a defeated slump to his shoulders and his voice was low enough that Geralt wasn’t sure he meant for him to hear, “All the world should grieve your passing.”

Silence settled like a blanket around them. Geralt didn’t have the energy to try to cobble together a response so he let it remain uncontested.

He wasn’t sure how long they remained in the hazy afternoon sunlight. There was only the sound of the birds in the trees above them and a few industrious bees working their way through a patch of wildflowers. He let his head slump to the side, trusting the instinct that the fae wouldn’t let him fall. The next thing he was aware of was the shifting of the material against his cheek as Jaskier moved against him, jostling him awake.

“Come on, Geralt,” the fae said gently, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Geralt grumbled, but Jaskier ignored it in favor of pulling him to his feet and nudging him toward the trees. He let the fae herd him through the trees without letting his mind drift further than the next step. His skin itched beneath the layer of dried blood and dirt and he could only imagine how badly he smelled. It had been weeks since he’d managed anything more than a quick rub down in a stream.

Which was why the sound of water moving over rocks made him look up with the last bit of energy he could manage to take in his surroundings.

Ahead of him, the curtain of tree branches gave way to a tiny oasis within the dense forest. A gently moving creek darted through the trees to empty into a pond clear enough to see the darting shapes of fish and smooth rocks at the bottom. It didn’t look deep enough to tread water unless you moved to the center of the pool.

“I found it while I was foraging a bit for supper,” Jaskier said with a hint of smugness. Geralt looked a little closer and found a small, neat pile of nuts, berries, and even another hare roasted a golden brown. 

“This is…” Geralt floundered a little as he tried to comprehend why the fae had gone to such lengths.

“Too much?” Jaskier’s expression was painfully vulnerable at the thought of Geralt’s dismissal and the Witcher was helpless in the face of it.

Instead he reached out with one hand and linked his fingers with the fae’s. “I’ve never had such a gift.”

Jaskier flushed a fetching shade of pink that trailed down his neck to the collar of his shirt. Geralt had to resist the urge to prowl closer and find out just how far down that blush spread. The thought was as startling as it was tempting. It felt like the longer he traveled with the fae, the weaker his defenses became.

“I thought you could use a day off. There will be plenty of monsters to kill tomorrow.”

Instead of answering, the Witcher walked to the nearest sun-warmed stone and sat down with a huff of air. He heard Jaskier trail closer and felt the weight of those inhuman eyes lingering. A curl of heat flared to life in his gut, soaking deep like an ember. It made it easier to reach down and drag the edge of his dark shirt free from his pants and over his head.

Behind him, Jaskier sucked in a quiet breath at the sight of Geralt’s bare skin gleaming in the sunlight. The Witcher stretched his neck from side to side in a sinuous stretch, reaching up to tug his hair free from its tie to hang in soft waves just above his shoulders. He trailed his fingers over his aching ribs and toed off his heavy boots. Kicking them out of the way, he shucked off his pants and stepped into the cold water.

The chill of it made goosebumps break out over his skin, but he only gritted his teeth and continuing forward until it was up to his waist. Geralt ducked down and dunked his head into the clear water, scrubbing the worst of the muck from his hair and blowing out a breath at the sensation. He blinked away the water and squinted up at where Jaskier was still standing on the bank.

“Aren’t you coming in?” he called.

Jaskier licked his lips and blinked twice before giving Geralt an impish grin. “Just enjoying the view.” In response, Geralt flicked a spray of water up at him and grinned when the fae cursed and jumped out of range. “This is raw silk, Geralt! Honestly, were you raised by wolves?”

“Almost.”

Sniggering a little at the joke, the fae began unbuttoning his shirt and ridiculously tight trousers. Geralt kicked off from the bottom and paddled lazily into deeper waters. The warm sun on his back loosened tight muscles and added to the comfortable langor of the day. He tried to remember the last time he allowed himself to do something as simple as take a swim and failed.

Water splashed and rippled around him, signalling Jaskier had made his way into the pool. Geralt turned to watch pale skin dotted with freckles slip beneath the surface and reappear a foot away.

“I must say I thought it would take more effort to get you to clean off,” Jaskier quipped, “I was beginning to wonder if you were attempting to use the added layers of dirt as a shield of some sort.”

Geralt reached out in a blur of motion to dunk the fae in the water and grinned when he came up sputtering. 

“No wonder everything tries to kill you,” Jaskier sputtered, wiping away water, “You have no manners. Not even a thank you for all the effort I put into this.”

“And here I thought you were just trying to get me naked.”

There was a glimmer of mischief in Jaskier’s eyes when he waggled his eyebrows that helped ease the worst of the tension left behind by all the blood on Geralt’s hands. “Can’t I do both?”

It was odd to realize he was completely relaxed despite being naked and unarmed beside a creature whose kind was known for hunting humans and Witchers alike. In the corner of his eye, he could see the stark black lines of his tattoo along his forearm. The tattoo should have been a bitter reminder of the way he’d been bound to the fae--not unlike his connection to his unwanted child surprise--but he found himself unable to summon up the anger or bitterness that had tempered their first interactions.

Instead, he found himself picturing the sleepy sounds Jaskier made when he was curling into his bedroll each night. Or the way the cackled in delight each time his traps bore fruit. It had become a new sort of normal to fall asleep to the sound of another’s even breaths and have someone to wait up for him when he returned home from a long hunt. 

He knew Vesemir and his brothers would probably laugh themselves hoarse if they knew just how far Geralt had fallen with the fae, but he didn’t care.

He  _ liked _ Jaskier. Trusted him even, in his strange way. Whether or not those emotions would lead to something more was more than he could say.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s cautious tone broke him out of his wandering thoughts to blink over at him. “Are you alright?”

Instead of answering, Geralt shifted in the water and began stroking toward shore. “Need to eat before it gets carried off by the birds.”

“As if they would dare to upset me,” Jaskier muttered darkly, his eyes flicking to the treetops in warning.

Geralt paused long enough to pull his dirtied clothes from where he’d dropped them and began to scrub the worst of the muck from the cloth. By the time he was finished, the water around him was cloudy with the runoff, but at least he didn’t have to wear something disgusting when they headed back to camp.

He slipped on his wet pants and ignored Jaskier’s soft sound of disappointment when he hiked them up over his hips. The material clung indecently to his thighs, but he’d long past lost the ability to relax when he was so vulnerable. With that in mind, he pulled a knife free from his boot and tucked it into his waistband.

The food Jaskier had gathered was enough to make his stomach rumble angrily and he padded barefoot over to it. He grabbed a handful of wild strawberries and made a happy sound when he found them to be sweet and juicy. He guessed that must be one of the perks of traveling with a fae.

After a while, Jaskier joined him on the warm rock, clad in only his smalls, and sprawled out across the smooth surface. It felt like there were miles of bare skin on display and Geralt felt his own blush curl up his neck. Feeling daring, he reached out to off a berry to the lounging fae and smiled a little when Jaskier ate it without hesitation.

A comfortable silence stretched between them as they ate. The little pool felt like its own little world, safe from the worries that might follow them from the Path. Geralt could feel himself unwinding like a bowstring released from its frame. He breathed deeply, scenting the clean waters of the pond alongside the faint perfume of meadowgrass and power that lingered on Jaskier.

When his stomach was full, Geralt let himself stretch out beside the fae, ignoring the part of him that warned against even this bit of trust. He closed his eyes. It was a rare thing to know his companion was just as capable of protecting them as a Witcher would be.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” he whispered as sleep tugged at his consciousness.

The last thing he remembered before slipping into peaceful darkness was the sensation of fingers carding through his hair in a gentle rhythm.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my best attempt to write something purely soft and fluffy for you guys to make up for some of the angst I put you through. I hope it was enjoyable. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want you to know I released the fluffy chapter without any intention of following it up with this drama. Then I took a shower and the scene practically wrote itself.
> 
> Enjoy?

Geralt was dragged from the deepest sleep he’d managed in weeks by the scent of ozone and rot. 

He blinked, sluggish as a drunk after a bender, and found Jaskier crouched above him with his eyes scanning the trees around them. The easy warmth of the afternoon before had disappeared with the daylight it appeared. Instead the night felt unnaturally cold. 

“Jaskier,” he said softly, a quiet question. 

“We need to leave.” Gone was the enigmatic bard with his easy smiles and storyteller’s hands. In his place was a predator. 

Instinctively, his heart quickened at the latent violence lurking in the creature above him. Any Witcher would be able to sense the danger of the fae at his side, but, instead of reaching for his only knife in preparation for a fight, Geralt slowly sat up and looked around for the source of Jaskier’s odd behavior.

The woods around them had gone quiet. There were no more birdsongs or even the chirp of a cicada to distract from the heavy anticipation hanging in the air. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath. Even the stream emptying into the pool seemed unnaturally subdued.

He must have been asleep for at least a few hours, judging by the encroaching dusk and the stiffness in his back from laying on the hard rock. His pants were uncomfortably stiff from their impromptu washing and rubbed irritably against his legs when he twisted to scan the trees around them for some sign of a predator. The movement shifted the medallion hanging from his neck and he was somehow unsurprised to feel the low thrum that signalled magic in the air.

“You need to get back to Roach,” Jaskier said in a carefully even voice. 

“What’s hap--” Geralt cut off his own question in surprise when a flicker of movement distracted him.

There, where the smooth river stones met the dark earth of the woods, a small, white mushroom slowly bloomed.

A mushroom in the woods was hardly a cause for concern, but the tiny stalk seemed to grow to maturity in only a few seconds. Geralt frowned in wonderment and glanced up to see Jaskier’s blue eyes fix on the fungus with something close to true fear. Before he could ask, another mushroom bloomed and grew a few inches away from the first. Then another.

He leaned closer, curiosity and wariness battling for control. Whatever they signalled, it was obvious it wasn’t natural. A sickly sweet scent trickled through the air and he sucked in a slow breath to try to identify it.

Rot.

Jaskier stood in a sudden movement, grabbing Geralt’s clothes from where they were drying in the sun, and tossed them towards him. “Move.  _ Now _ .”

“What’s going on?” Geralt asked as he shoved his arms into his sleeves and began lacing up his boots. 

In the short amount of time it took for him to pull on his clothes, four more mushrooms popped up around them and he could practically  _ feel _ Jaskier vibrating with tension. They formed a delicate arch around the two males like a pale crescent moon. The Witcher felt something inside him go cold with uneasy understanding when he realized more were growing around the curve.

A fairy ring.

“There isn’t time to explain.”

Geralt glared at him, unnerved by what was happening. “Then summarize.”

“I--” Both of them looked to the right at the sound of hounds far off in the distance. If he had to guess, Geralt would think them to be about a mile out, but Jaskier paled like he’d seen a ghost. “ _ \--Please _ , Geralt. Just trust me for now and go to Roach.”

The pleading tone made Geralt wish for his weapons with a desperate ache. Anything to help chase away the growing fear in the fae’s eyes. Something must have shown on his face because the fae made a sharp gesture towards him. Before he could do more than open his mouth in surprise, a faint tingle spread across his body and he looked down to find his armor carefully settled into place on him.

The knowledge that the fae had used his magic in such a blatant way made Geralt balk. In all the weeks they’d been traveling together, Jaskier had insisted on avoiding any use of his power. He made fires by hand and trapped their food using clever little contraptions made out of thin rope. Even his skill at the lute seemed to be honed by long hours strumming the chords and stringing together bits of songs and lyrics. Geralt had assumed the decision was yet another way to rankle the Witcher--now he wasn’t so sure.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

_ Who are you running from? _

Jaskier’s face went through a serious of complicated emotions--irritation, fondness, worry--at the stubborn set of the Witcher’s jaw before he gritted his teeth and said briskly, “I’m going to give you enough time to get out of range.”

“This is a  _ threat _ ?” He waved a hand at the continually growing ring. “I’m a Witcher, not some damsel in distress.”

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier repeated a little desperately when the hounds bayed again. Closer now. “I should have told you before, but we don’t have  _ time. _ ”

Still, Geralt hesitated.

“If I go, will you come with me?” he finally said, hoping Jaskier wouldn’t just send him on his way using their bargain magic.

The fae’s eyes darted between Geralt and the direction the hounds would be coming from.

“ _ Jaskier _ .”

“Fine,” he snapped, “Just go. I’ll catch up.”

Geralt nodded, watching Jaskier for another heartbeat, before nodding again and running in the direction of their first campsite.

As he ran, he mentally calculated how quickly he could get his gear and Roach ready to run for it. Whatever was coming for them was powerful enough that Jaskier wasn’t sure he could take them even with Geralt’s help which made them a formidable foe. He didn’t want to risk being unable to help Jaskier if he needed him. 

With that in mind, he pushed himself into a sprint that meant Roach startled with an ill-tempered sound when he broke through the trees where she’d been grazing. Her training was obvious, despite her irritation, because she quickly moved closer. He grabbed her tack and began saddling her using muscle memory. He shoved the gear they couldn’t afford to leave behind into one of the packs without bothering to arrange them with any skill. Jaskier’s lute was still leaning against the tree nearby and he didn’t hesitate to lash it to the saddle horn where it wasn’t in danger of getting crushed during the ride.

As he worked, he kept his ears focused on the sounds of the hounds coming closer. The speed that the beasts must be moving was an easy indicator that they weren’t mortal creatures. A rabbit sprinted through the clearing in a panic followed by a brace of pheasants, instinctively fleeing before the sounds of the baying pack. Their howls echoed and distorted oddly in the suddenly silent forest, painfully loud as they moved closer. There must have been several of them at least and he could hear when they split up to work towards surrounding their prey.

Sounds of crashing rattled through the trees and Roach’s head swung up in alarm when a series of deer, foxes, and other woodland animals raced out of the underbrush. Geralt could see the whites of their eyes flashing as they instinctively stampeded away from the sounds of the hound’s cries. Any hope that the beasts would be easy to defeat died a quick death.

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed as he cinched up the saddle and didn’t bother with the reins. Roach knew how to take direction well enough--he just had to hope they wouldn’t get close to make her startle.

He kept looking back toward the woods where Jaskier had fallen behind to make a stand, nerves making him tense. The weight of his armor and weapons felt like an anchor against the way his heart seemed to want to break free from his chest. The hilt of his dagger creaked dangerously in his hand when his grip tightened, debating going back to help Jaskier.

Before he could decide, the hounds’ sounds cut off abruptly, leaving an eerie silence in their wake.

It felt like the whole world held its breath. Geralt turned Roach in a tight circle, both of them tense with nerves. She snorted, ears swiveling back and forth while they both searched for some sign of Jaskier in the trees. He was debating saying fuck it and going back when a violent  _ crack _ echoed through the woods, sending Roach into a spooked rear.

By the time he got her under control, Jaskier was leaping through the underbrush in a rare display of unnatural agility. His face was pale, but his eyes seemed to snap unholy fire as he approached. Geralt reached out a hand and Jaskier pulled himself up behind him in a smooth motion.

“ _ Go now! _ ” he shouted, twisting to look behind them.

Kicking his heels into Roach’s side, Geralt felt Jaskier’s hands wrap around his waist as the mare surged forward. They were forced to duck low to keep themselves from being knocked off as branches snagged and pulled at their clothing. The Witcher let his hand drop to hold onto the fae’s to prevent him from falling off and to soothe some of the panic that had built up in the short time they’d been separated.

The mare broke through the last of the trees and leapt across a final, shallow ditch before the ground leveled off to signal they’d reached the road. Night air blew past Geralt’s face, teasing his hair to a wild frenzy around his face. He felt Jaskier sit upright, still pressed from chest to thigh against him, and twist to watch the road behind them.

“Did we lose them?” Geralt called over the thunder of hooves.

Jaskier started to speak, but cut off with a rough sound when a single long howl called out from the darkness behind them.

Within seconds it was joined by at least four others coming from either side of them.

“Fuck,” Geralt repeated, eyes scanning the shadows around them for some sign of what was following them, “I need to know what we’re up against here, Jask.”

“The hounds.”

“Be more specific, smartass.”

“Not normal hounds-- _ The  _ Hounds,” Jaskier explained in a rush, “They’re sidhe creatures. Sent out after those of us foolish enough to cross someone powerful.”

Geralt turned to look at the curve of Jaskier’s face. “I’m guessing they’re after you?”

The fae’s lips twisted into a smile without any true humor. “Of course.”

Before he could say more, a pale shape stepped out onto the road in front of them and even Roach’s fearsome courage seemed to buckle at the sight of it.

It was larger than any of the hunting dogs he’d seen roaming noble villas and towns, coming up nearly to his waist if he were standing. Grey fur a few shades darker than Geralt’s was dotted with brown flecks that he didn’t need to get closer to to know was blood. Milky white eyes glared balefully at them, somehow narrowing in on their location despite their apparent blindness. It’s ribs showed easily through an emaciated body and Geralt caught the gleam of bone peeking through the rotting skin.

The hound tilted its head back to roar a challenge that made Roach tremble in fear and the creatures unseen in the trees around them answer back victoriously. Silently, Geralt reached back to pull free the silver sword strapped to his back.

Jaskier was still behind him, barely breathing. “This wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he whispered softly.

“I can hold them off,” Geralt said, “You can take Roach and head for the nearest town.”

The fae made a soft choking sound and the Witcher could practically feel the way he was vibrating with nerves. “You think I’d leave you here to fight alone?”

“Fighting monsters is what I  _ do _ , Jaskier.”

“Not this time.” There was something dangerous in the other male’s voice and Geralt turned his head slightly to try to look at him without losing sight of the lead hound. Jaskier’s thumb brushed a quick caress over Geralt’s stomach before his arms slipped away. “I had hoped we’d have more time.”

“What are you--”

Then there was power ripping through the air around him, pinning him in place as Jaskier leaned forward to breathe a command into his ear. “ _ Run _ ,  _ Geralt _ . Run and don’t stop until you're safe.”

His tattoo burned along his arm as its magic uncurled to wrap his body like marionette strings. He fought--useless, he knew--but he couldn’t do more than twitch helplessly as Jaskier slowly slid off Roach’s hindquarters and onto the road. A roar of fury lodged itself in his throat. Geralt couldn’t even force himself to twist back to look at the fae before his knees were tightening around Roach and he was leaning forward to coax her back into movement.

He saw the hounds shift their focus behind him, uncaring of the Witcher or his mount now that they had sight of their prey. Two more pale forms stalked out of the shadows to join their leader. Growls shivered through the trees and Roach startled once before bolting.

Then they were racing through the night with the ghost of Jaskier’s warmth against his back and his command still vibrating in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back to our usually scheduled angst. ;)
> 
> In other bad news, school is starting back up and my updates will be slower while I'm stuck grading and lesson planning. Fear not, I will be adding to the story as much and as often as I can. (Same with any other story you might be subscribed to.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright friends, let's get into some plot.

Roach stumbled beneath him.

He blinked, some part of him surprised that his sure-footed mare was struggling. The wind was ripping through his clothes, raking greedy fingers through his hair. Some part of him kept urging him forward like they were being chased. The thought felt foreign, wrong somehow.

_ Run, Geralt. _

The words echoed oddly in his head, highlighted by Roach nearly losing her footing once more. He should be running, he knew--but why? There was something thrumming against his skin and it took him two tries to reach up and feel the way his medallion was vibrating in reaction to the sweetly scented magic that lingered in the air. Slowly, he pulled up on the reins and felt an answering sigh of relief from his horse.

_ Run _ .

What was he running from? Why did he feel like he was missing something?

_ Geralt _ .

He looked behind him, almost certain he would find someone standing behind him but only saw an empty road.

_ Run. Geralt. Ru-- _

The magic blossomed into a crescendo that sent skittering fractals of power rolling over his skin. He blinked and--

_ A howl cut through the still night air, eager as it was vicious. _

_ Jaskier, looking frightened and desperate as he met Geralt’s eyes. _

_ His mouth opening to form words that would send the Witcher far from the promise of blood streaking through the trees. _

_ Run, Geralt-- _

_ “NO!” _

Roach bugled in alarm as her rider abruptly pulled back on the reins and nearly sent himself crashing to the ground. Without the magic sending blinding waves of fear and adrenaline in his body, he felt exhaustion making itself known. He thought of the old stories of humans being swept away by fae commands, working their fingertips to the bone in a mindless attempt to fulfill the fae’s wishes. If it weren’t for Roach, Geralt might consider himself one of them.

Jaskier’s command had dragged all of his protests and thoughts out like the tide, irreversible and unchangeable. He’d spoken the words and Geralt had just, had just  _ left him there _ .

Sliding to the ground, he crooned softly to her and walked beside her in an attempt to let her cool down. She flicked a dismissive ear at his rumbled apologies, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the burning need to turn back now that he wasn’t held captive by fae magic. He’d make it up to her later.

Right now, all he could focus on was finding a way back to Jaskier. 

(He could decide  _ why _ that was so important later.)

It was obvious Roach wouldn’t be able to run back the way they’d come any time soon. He didn’t even know how far they were from the last place he’d seen Jaskier. In fact, aside from a general direction, he didn’t even know where to begin looking.

The thought made him slow, throat closing on a raw noise of dismay. Somehow, over the last few months, Jaskier had broken through all of his defenses. He’d gone from an unwanted pest and dangerous ally to someone Geralt  _ relied _ on. Someone he  _ trusted _ . Someone he--

Forcing the thought away, Geralt scanned the area around him and nearly shuddered with relief when he caught sight of the deep wagon ruts and the smell of woodsmoke that signaled they were near a town. Judging by the grey sky, dawn was only an hour or so away. If he could find an inn, he could beg, borrow, or steal a horse fast enough to make it back to where he’d left Jaskier. 

He ignored the voice that told him no animal would be able to reach the fae in time to save him.

* * *

The innkeeper’s horse was a rangy gelding that was better suited to pulling a plow than carrying a Witcher across great distances. It lacked the fearlessness that had drawn Geralt to Roach, but it served its purpose well enough. Roach deserved the rub down and fresh oats that the stableboy had sworn to give her with eyes wide enough that Geralt believed him. The gelding would get him to where he needed quickly enough.

As he rode, flashes of memory broke like lightning bolts in his mind. Branches ripping and pulling at Geralt’s hair and clothing as he thundered across the earth. Roach’s scream of panic when one of the hounds snapped at her heels when they raced by. 

But, no matter how hard he tried, he could never remember turning around.

It was instinct that had him pulling the horse up short as he recognized where they were. Both of them heaved, out of breath and vaguely panicked in a way that didn’t make sense in the silent trees. Geralt threw himself out of the saddle and looked around with greedy eyes for some sign of what happened.

There were deep grooves carved into the soft ground to match the unnatural footprints scattered around. It was easy to imagine the fight--Jaskier, alone and terrifyingly brave, as he was surrounded by the hounds. A slash across the tree that smelled faintly of ozone was the fae’s magic lashing out to bring one of the hounds low. The pale corpse lying stretched across the ground was evidence of Jaskier’s accuracy.

He cast about in growing circles for some clue about the fae’s fate--the hounds could rot with his blessing. Dark splatters that stank of iron and magic were scattered around the churned grass and earth. A growing terror was brewing in his bones, trembling something that he’d imagined to be unmoving up til now.

“Jaskier?” he called, trying not to be disappointed when there was no response.

The Witcher walked past a grove of trees and froze, eyes fixed on a scorched circle of grass at the center of a clearing, surrounded by a malicious ring of mushrooms glinting in the daylight. 

A scrap of bright blue fabric fluttered from where it had been ripped off a carefully tailored tunic. He reached out with gentle fingers and tugged it free, wishing he could still smell the scent of meadowgrass and power over the rot and fear lingering here. 

Jaskier had fought. Every inch, every small victory for his enemies had been paid for with their blood and pain. The violent creature that flashed behind the fae’s eyes each time a villager had sneered in Geralt’s direction or threatened to refuse to pay him had been unleashed.

And it still hadn’t been enough to save him.

They’d dragged him here, bleeding and wounded, but still fighting. The hounds had pinned him to the earth and summoned up a magic that tasted like ash and sickness. Even now, the smell made Geralt’s stomach roil in disgust and horror. Whatever creature that had sent the hounds out after Jaskier had opened a portal and taken him there. The only beings capable of harnessing the fairy rings were exactly the creatures who’d been missing from the Continent for the last year.

The thought made him tighten his grip on the fabric in his hand. Jaskier had looked cagey and uncomfortable after running into one of his own kind in a tavern. He’d insisted that they keep moving at a rapid pace for days after, not even complaining when they were forced to camp out for weeks. Almost like he didn’t want another fae to know where he was.

Geralt turned with new purpose to where he’d left the gelding grazing alone. He had a hunt to begin.

* * *

“ _ Fuck _ !”

The shout was drowned out by the sounds of revelry from the tavern next door and the snarl ripped from Geralt’s chest.  _ “Where is he?” _

Valdo Marx gaped back at him in furious alarm that quickly shifted into the sneer he remembered from the first time they’d met. 

The fae had been relatively easy to find, considering. All he’d done was search for the taverns and bars that Jaskier had always refused to visit.

_ ‘My talent is far too great for those audiences. Only the worst bards would bother,’ Jaskier had grumbled with affront pride. _

From there, he’d asked for anyone who’d only remained in town for a few days at a time and followed rumors of odd gifts appearing and disappearing just as quickly. A cow that produced decadent milk, but attacked anyone who got close to it. Miners striking it gold one day and then dying when their tunnels collapsed the next day. Hallmark examples of the kinds of gifts the fae were best known for.

“Why Witcher,” Marx crooned, “have you misplaced something?”

Geralt slammed him back against the wall with the hand he’d wrapped around the fae’s throat and felt something feral within him preen at the flicker of fear in muddy brown eyes. “Where is Jaskier?,” he demanded again.

“I thought you would be grateful to have him gone. It wasn’t as though you chose to travel with him.”

The words landed like a blow. The dark lines against his forearm seemed to writhe and burn at the reminder of all that he owed Jaskier. Was he just doing this to repay a life debt? 

Just as quickly his mind rejected the thought. Whatever magic and desperation that had brought them together, they’d remained together through choice. Jaskier had never forced him to continue traveling with the fae and some part of him knew he would have left if Geralt had asked. Their uneasy partnership had slowly morphed into something that was deeper and far more complicated than friendship.

_ Run, Geralt. Run and don’t stop until you’re safe. _

The reminder chased away the ghosts of his insecurities and he tightened his hold on Valdo Marx’s neck. “Tell me who took him.”

“Why should you care, Witcher? It’s not like you could actually save him.”

“Tell me or I’ll gut you right here.”

Valdo laughed, cruel and inhuman. “Jaskier would  _ thank _ me for keeping it from you. He always was far too much of a romantic for his own good.”

Geralt growled, trying to resist the urge to throttle the fae.

“You won’t be able to save him, you know. He’ll gut you just to get into her good graces.”

“Who?” he asked, not managing to salvage the thread of nonchalance he was trying for. “Who took him?”

Fear bled through the smug posture of the other male, making him seem painfully vulnerable in the dim light. “Y--you can’t--”

_ “Who?” _

Valdo licked dry lips, eyes darting around for some avenue of escape, but finding none. Defeated, he went limp under Geralt’s grip. He closed his eyes and Geralt felt a tremble shiver through him before he finally spoke.

“They call her the Countess.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, cliff hanger, my dear friend. Anyone see the twist coming?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in posting. Fall is always difficult to maintain a normal writing schedule once school starts, and this year has already been heinous.
> 
> Hopefully this update makes up for some of the silence.

Once, in a land filled with magic, a girl was born.

Her people, the fae, marveled at her great beauty and charm. It was said that the sound of her voice was enough to make the birds cease their song and the flowers bloom anew. Born into one of their noble houses, she was destined for power, for glory. 

Perhaps it was her beauty that made it easier for them to overlook the rumors of cruelty and bloodstains embedded beneath her fingertips. Or the way her parents watched her with expressions far too severe for someone watching their child grow. It must have been their great love for their child that led them to keep her under close supervision as she grew. Children, for the fae, were precious after all.

The only stain on her reputation was the matter of her magic. Specifically, the lack of magic.

All fae were born with natural gifts bestowed upon them by the forces of chaos and raw power that crafted all life. With them came varying levels of strength as well as specialties that could be used in all manner of way. There were even elemental variations that could travel down family lineages for generations.

Some fae preferred to help those that were weaker than them with gifts of healing and fertility. They lived among humanity as doctors and village midwives--never explaining why they were so skilled. It was a secret that only their patients would ever truly understand. There were even those that crossed the boundaries between worlds to fashion themselves as gods, eager to be worshiped by the more foolish humans.

Then there were the tricksters, who revelled in convincing people to agree to bargains that would lead to more power and influence for themselves. These were the faelings and lesser sidhe who drew the eye with bright smiles even as their knives dragged against tender flesh. The potential power resting within humanity was something few of their kind learned to truly harness--why shouldn’t that power be given to someone who could truly harness it? It was for this reason that bargain magic remained the strongest of their magics. 

It was the balance of the bargain that drew the fae. Natural magics worked only through a system of give and take, unlike the chaos of the human mages. It took a true gift to broker a bargain that would cost the maker nothing and the victim everything. One that could bring riches or ruin to those foolish enough to barter with an immortal. 

But the Countess was none of these things. 

Unlike her mother, she seemed unable to heal illnesses and broken bones. If anything, her touch seemed to make wounds fester and rot. 

When they thought she might bend fire to her will like her sire, they turned away disappointed. 

The Countess could not be limited to a flame, it seemed—but she would _burn_. The world or herself, it remained to be seen. Unfortunately, by the time anyone realized this, they were already too late.

____________________________________________

Geralt glared at Valdo, not sure if anything the fae said could be trusted. Everything he knew about the male indicated that he had more than a few reasons for sending Geralt chasing after his own shadow or into some sort of trap. The fae had had an open animosity with Jaskier and Geralt had not forgotten the hungry way he’d stared at the bargain tattoo on Geralt’s arm.

Still, Valdo Marx was the only lead he had to finding Jaskier.

“What does this Countess want with him?” he finally asked gruffly. 

Valdo smirked, eyes flashing in a way that had nothing to do with humanity. He shifted like he was stretching a bit beneath Geralt’s hold, which tightened in warning, before he spoke. “He _belongs_ to her,” the fae sing-songed.

For some reason, the statement made something deep in his chest twist with a sour sensation. The idea of Jaskier being tied to another shouldn’t create such a feeling of anger. He had no real claim to the fae, after all. Just the memories of a quick smile and the sharp command to _run_ still echoing in his mind.

_What have you done to yourself, silly Witcher? You’re beginning to fall apart._

Geralt closed his eyes, still startled by how deep the panic and grief went at the thought of all that had happened. He’d known the fae would be trouble from the moment they’d met. Even Jaskier hadn’t attempted to hide his nature. To consider a long term attachment to a member of the Sidhe was the height of insanity and went against everything the Witchers were trained to believe.

And yet, here he was.

Valdo’s face flickered with an emotion that made his scent go sour. “He belongs to her.”

“Stop. Saying. That. What does it mean? They’re married?” Geralt ignored the way the question seemed to taste in his mouth.

The fae’s laughter was cruel even as he shook his head. “Their bond is far more...complicated.”

“Why did she take him then? It was clear he didn’t want to go back.”

“No one wants to go back to Underhill,” Valdo said, all humor vanishing in an instant. “No one.” 

“Then why was he taken?”

There was a nightmare lurking behind the immortality in the creature’s eyes. “Because he belongs to her.”

___________________________________________

It wasn’t until after her parents were found dead along with the rest of their household that people began to suspect the Countess. 

There was just something about the way she had watched the swollen, bloated corpses being carried out of her family home. Something about the small smile lurking at the corner of her full lips despite the loss she’d suffered. Something about the knowledge hiding behind poison green eyes.

Without her parent’s interference, it seemed, there was no one to stop her.

From there it was only a matter of time before the other great houses of the fae fell. The Countess gathered power the same way a body gathered flies--through rot. You see, the magic that sprang quiet and bitter from her fingertips was not the fires of her father or the cool healing of her mother, but something else entirely. It seeped into the very ground around her until the vines and grasses curled away from her steps. A touch was enough to absorb the life and power of anyone unfortunate enough to draw her ire.

The sickness within her seemed insatiable. It could not be satisfied by lands or bended knees. It wasn’t enough that her name was enough to bring terror into the hearts of beings that were bred to be above such things. She stared at the lands gone dark with an unnatural blight and felt no peace. Her eyes lingered on the bleached white bones of the armies sent to face her and bared her teeth in a silent snarl. 

What she wanted, what she desperately _needed_ , was a muse.

_______________________________

“He’s back in the lands of your people. Beyond the veil between worlds,” Geralt said.

“Far beyond your reach, Witcher,” Valdo agreed, “He is with _na daine sidhe_.”

The Witcher’s jaw clenched at the thought of what Jaskier might have already suffered in order to ensure Geralt was safe or if he was even still alive. The Countess may have already killed him a dozen times over and Geralt would never know. He looked down at the dark lines still wrapped around his wrist and barely resisted the urge to trace them with his fingers as he forced his mind along more productive paths.

Time didn’t work the same in the other worlds. The humans who were unfortunate enough to stumble into the fairy rings wandered out decades and millenniums later with families gone old and grey. They told tales of ageless lands and seasons unchanging thanks to the rulers who remained stalwart over their people. 

Fae nobles never ventured into the human world. Their magics were too great to pass through the veil unhindered and so were destined to remain within a world few humans would ever witness. The only fae who were able to pass into the mortal lands were those of middling talents.

And Jaskier.

When the fae had first appeared, Geralt had been too distracted by the bargain that bound them, he’d never considered just _why_ a fae with Jaskier’s talents was there. Sure Jaskier liked to pretend he was only a bard or minor power, but Geralt had seen his gifts firsthand. The fae had faced down a griffin and countless other monsters as he travelled along at Geralt’s side. He’d toyed with the political schemes of human courts and even used his magic to turn back the curse of a striga’s curse at Geralt’s request. 

All without hesitation or concern--perhaps the most telling sign of Jaskier’s true abilities.

The only time Jaskier had ever looked truly frightened had been at the sound of the hound’s cries. There had been a terrible knowledge hiding behind those blue eyes when they’d met Geralt’s. He’d known that this was a force he wouldn’t be able to resist. So he’d only concerned himself with getting Geralt away.

_Run, Geralt. Don’t stop until you’re safe._

_And what of you?_ Geralt wanted to ask. _Who will keep you safe?_

That quickly, Geralt’s mind was made up.

“Show me how to get into the lands of the Sidhe,” he demanded.

Valdo’s face went a sickening shade of green and he shook his head fervently. “No, no, I won’t--”

“ _I’m not asking, fae._ ”

For the first time since he’d been grabbed by the Witcher, the would-be bard began to fight in earnest. He bucked hard enough against Geralt that if he were not enhanced, he might have lost his hold on the creature. Growling, Geralt pressed the silver blade he’d tucked into his belt against Valdo’s neck until the fae finally went still, the whites of his eyes flashing with terror.

“Kill me then Witcher!” he spat, “I won’t go back!”

“What are you so afraid of?” Geralt snarled in disgust.

Somewhere whereby a man shouted as he was pushed outside by the stout barkeeper and stumbled into the street. Geralt turned at the noise instinctively and, in that moment, Valdo made his move.

Jerking his hand down to push away from Geralt’s knife, the fae brought his knee up in a strike that made Geralt double over with a grunt. Valdo dodged Geralt’s swiping hand and sprinted for the streets as quickly as he could. The Witcher lunged after him, losing sight of the mousy brown hair around the corner. 

When he cleared the edge of the building, Valdo Marx was nowhere to be seen.

Cursing viciously, Geralt kicked the side of the tavern and raked his hands through his tangled hair. Losing Valdo was poor luck, but he was still determined to move forward on his, admittedly, insane plan. He needed to find a way into the other world. Breaking through the veil would require power--more power than a Witcher naturally possessed.

What he needed was magic.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess who/what Geralt is going to go find?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've titled this chapter affectionately, "Djinns and Yenns". Enjoy :)

The sound of the net slapping against the surface of the water was almost soothing.

There was a rhythm to it. Wind up the line. Check for knots. Shift to his stronger arm. Aim. Throw. Each step was instinctual now, after hours of hunting for a literal needle in a haystack. One that might not even  _ exist _ to be found.

_ This will work,  _ he told the still waters of the lake as the net slowly dragged across the bottom.  _ It  _ has _ to work. _

Attempts to find a mage or another member of the fae who were willing to open a path to the lands of the Sidhe had so far been useless. Anyone powerful enough to manage it wasn’t stupid enough to risk it. They weren’t interested in the strained lies Geralt tried to produce to justify the trip into another realm when there were so many monsters to hunt closer to home.

The fae, too, remained strangely absent. Valdo was long gone and Geralt was beginning to wonder if Valdo and Jaskier had been the last of their kind to remain on this side of the veil. It made Eskel’s passing comment about the fae going missing while monsters and creatures seemed to only be growing more active.

Now, he thought those two facts had a more sinister relationship. Each time he’d attempted to find a fairy ring that would lead him into the other realm, he found only rotten toadstools and a nearby village begging for the assistance of a Witcher. It couldn’t be a coincidence. He remembered the way Jaskier had reacted to the mushrooms appearing around them when they’d been resting together. 

It seemed like such a long time since he’d been surprised by a makeshift picnic and a smiling bard. He thought of the way Jaskier’s eyes had matched the sky above them and how easy it had been to relax for the first time in years. It brought to mind a truth that he’d been avoiding for months--maybe since the night Jaskier had been so offended at the realization that other humans enjoyed treating Witchers like monsters. Even when they’d first met, Geralt had never truly seen Jaskier as his enemy. It was as though some part of him was always drawn to the fae.

Geralt threw the net into the water and tried to ignore the growing sense of dread that came with every failed cast.

A djinn was his last chance at finding a way to the Sidhe. He’d hoped that a djinn’s wish would be strong enough to cross between worlds even if there was a barrier up. Try as he might, he hadn’t found any stories of any humans being brought over in recent memory. It only added to his growing fear of what the Countess might be capable of now that she had Jaskier.

Humidity fought with bugs in a competition for what was the most annoying quality of this swamp. He could smell rotting leaves nearby mixing with the sharp scent of stagnant lake water. Breezes were few and far between and he could feel his hair frizzing and sticking to the nape of his neck. If he had any other options, he’d be riding away from this godsforsaken place with Roach, never to return.

There was a tug on the line and he perked up, focusing on the task at hand. The added weight made his already tired muscles pull, but he relished the extra effort. Weight meant he’d caught something and the charm he’d woven into his net for good luck, courtesy of a local witch, wasn’t a waste of his money.

Mud tangled the line until his catch was obscured and he dragged it closer eagerly. He sifted his fingers through the net, plucking apart the woven strands from whatever it was tangled in. He felt smooth edges and made a sound of excitement a moment before he tugged it free, hope dying a quick death.

A mud-caked shoe fell to the earth.

Geralt stared at the ancient looking boot for a long moment before he hung his head. This was hopeless. He knew better than to believe a djinn would solve his problems. That was exactly why they’d become so rare in the first place. Too many people thought to find their luck through stealing that of another.

“You don’t seem like a very good fisherman.”

The voice made him jerk out of his dark thoughts and he turned around, one hand dropping to his sword.

A woman watched him from the path nearby, as out of place in the woods as a mansion might be. Her dark hair tumbled around pale shoulders in a way that was no doubt designed to make it appear that she had tumbled out of bed--and that she might be convinced to tumble back into another. The dress she wore was better suited to a ballroom with daring slits and cutouts in the dark lace. If he weren’t so distracted by every minute he spent not knowing if Jaskier was safe, he might have been tempted by her.

As it was, he only scowled at her. “What do you want?”

“I heard there was a Witcher wandering around these woods--thought I might check it out myself.” She smiled like she expected him to laugh with her and was only moderately annoyed when he didn’t. “So,” she continued with a quirk of her eyebrow, “what are you searching for that’s so important?”

Now that he was looking for it, Geralt could see the traces of magic that lingered around her like a miasma. She was more powerful than the village witch he’d met in the nearby town. Powerful enough that he was surprised that Aretuza hadn’t claimed her for one of their positions at court and far too powerful for her presence here to be a coincidence.

Geralt held up the net and kept his face blank. “Fish.”

Purple eyes narrowed in a brief display of annoyance before she was back to attempting to tease an answer out of him. “You seem a little over qualified for that task, Witcher.”

“And yet, I still don’t have fish.”

There was a beat of silence where they considered one another.

Then she laughed, the sound as sharp as the intelligence she was trying to hide. “I’m Yennefer.”

“Geralt.”

“What are you really doing here, Geralt?”

He considered her for a moment before mentally shrugging. It wasn’t as though she could stop him from finding something that might not even exist. “Looking for a djinn. I was told there might be one in this lake.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes at him, a new hunger blooming there. “What use do you have for wishes?”

“Don’t care about wishes,” he said, “I just need to get somewhere and it seems like a djinn is my only option.”

“Where are you trying to go?”

Geralt grunted, impatient. “Why do you care?”

“Call it simple curiosity.”

“I need to get to the fae lands,” he said, a challenge in his voice, “and no one will open a portal there for me. Hence the djinn.”

The mage looked intrigued. “What could possibly be that important?”

Geralt threw the net back into the water, not bothering to clear away all the debris. He knew better than to expect something to change after so many tries, but he needed something to do with his hands. Each cast only cemented the growing dread that he’d been trying to avoid for two weeks.

Unless something changed, he wouldn’t be able to save Jaskier.

“They took someone important to me,” he finally said when he’d begun the process of dragging the net back to shore.

“You’re going to challenge a fae?” she asked, looking intrigued. “I thought a Witcher of all people would know how badly that always turns out.”

Geralt stared at the water to avoid the pity that appeared in her eyes. “I have to try.”

“I’m sorry.”

The apology was so unexpected, he turned to look at her. Yennefer watched him without flinching, something complicated in her expression. 

He frowned at her, dragging his eyes over her expensive dress in an attempt to drive the conversation into a safer topic. “Why are you here anyway? This is a long way from court.”

Yennefer took a step closer and hummed under her breath. “Interestingly enough, the same thing as you.”

“You’re looking for the djinn.” 

Suspicion made him tighten his hold on the rope in his hand. His relationships with mages was hardly something built on trust. Even Mousesack was more than capable of selling him out if the prize was worth the effort. A djinn was a treasure without equal for more than just a desperate warrior.

“Actually,” she said slowly, letting her eyes drop to the net at his feet, “I’ve already found it.”

Geralt tensed, looking down as the net in time to see a small clay pot tangled in the cords begin to move toward the mage. Moving quickly, he pulled back on the ropes to stop its movement and managed to snatch it up before she could try to take it again. The clay felt pitted and worn in his hands, but he clutched at it like it was a precious jewel.

He took a step back, mentally trying to calculate how quickly he could reach Roach and the rest of his weapons, when the mage threw out her arms in a placating gesture. “Wait!” she said.

Geralt arched an eyebrow at her, derision evident.

“Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best way to go about it.” He snorted and kept his hands tightly around the jar. His fingers traced over the sigil of binding that marked it for what it was--priceless. Yennefer watched him hungrily. “I need that djinn, Witcher.”

“As do I,” he replied sharply. He started to reach for the stopper keeping the djinn contained, but hesitated when she took a quick step toward him, torn between the urge to hide the jar and to reach for a weapon. 

“The djinn is my last chance at happiness!” she continued, a hint of desperation in her strange eyes. “I’ve been searching for one for over a decade.”

Geralt stared at her, his lips pressed into a flat line. He hated the feeling of guilt that rose with the mage’s open longing.

“I just need one wish, Witcher. Just one.”

“Djinn are dangerous,” he said to resist the urge to ask what could be so important. “It’s just as likely to kill you as any beast. Better for you to find some spell to solve your problem.”

“There is no spell.” Her words dropped like stones between them, magic still crackling in the air. “I--I’ve tried everything. Every master of healing. Every library. Every spellbook I could find. The only way to fix this is that djinn.”

“What exactly are you trying to fix?”

She hardened, unbreakable as stone and twice as unmovable. “When you become...when Aretuza takes you, they strip you of everything that makes you human. They want you to be loyal to them--not distracted by your past. By dreams of the future. Of--” Her voice went soft, “--of a  _ family _ .”

Geralt forced away the memories of his own trials with the ease of long practice, a terrible sort of understanding filling in the gaps. “They made you sterile.”

She nodded and he watched her jaw clench.

“A djinn’s wish does not guarantee happiness, mage,” he said as gently as he dared, “They are warped by their captivity and would do everything in their power to warp what you ask for.”

_ They would make you regret the child,  _ he doesn’t say.

The rare show of compassion didn’t go unnoticed because she tossed her dark hair over one shoulder in a haughty sweep of midnight. “Let me worry about that.”

“I cannot give you the djinn,” he continued steadily, “and I don’t want to kill you to keep it.”

But I will. For Jaskier, I will.

“A bargain, then.”

Geralt flinched at the familiar words and his hands tightened around the jar. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because we both know what it’s like to want the impossible.” 

They stared at one another, their focus unfaltering. Geralt tried to reach for the panic that made it so much easier to do what needed to be done to get Jaskier back, but it felt buried beneath a new compassion. He knew better than anyone what it was like to desperately seek something that could never belong to him. The tattoo on his forearm seemed to burn in familiar lines.

“Fine,” he said finally, ignoring the relief that made her shoulders slump, “What is your bargain?”

Yennefer’s earlier uneasiness disappeared beneath a mantle of confidence. She smiled--daring and bold in her hope. “Simple. You give me the djinn and I’ll open a portal to the fae lands for you to rescue your friend.”

“Seems a little uneven considering I would get three wishes if I kept the djinn.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want then?”

“Get me there and give me a way to get back. Then you can have the djinn and whatever wishes you want.” He watched her carefully before adding, “You will also take care of my horse until I get back.” Roach flicked her ears at him in an uncanny example of how she always seemed to know when he was talking about her, but didn’t stop eating the thick weeds at the edge of the pond.

There was barely a pause before the mage nodded and said, “I accept.”

When she stepped closer, he shook his head, moving the jar further out of reach. “You’ll get the djinn when the portal is open and you confirm how I’m getting back.”

She huffed and gave him a wicked smile that felt more genuine than anything she’d shown him before. “I’m beginning to think you don’t trust me, Witcher.”

“Hmm.”

Carefully, Geralt tucked the jar that contained the djinn into the pouch strapped to one thigh that was carefully packed with his most useful potions. The net went back into the water and he wished it good riddance. He pulled his boots free from the muddy bank and began to walk back to the ridgeline where his gear was waiting. Yennefer watched his movements with hungry eyes, but didn’t attempt to move forward.

He decided to ignore the mage for now in favor of looking over his equipment. Anticipation was making his hands shake with adrenaline and he had to resist the urge to demand that she open the portal immediately. Jaskier was waiting for him and, for the first time, he was sure that he would reach him.

Hold on a little longer. Just a little longer.

The tattoo throbbed in response and he stroked a finger over it--a habit he’d gained in the days and weeks since Jaskier was taken. It helped remind him that they were still bound by the bargain magic that had drawn them together in the first place. So long as the tattoo remained a dark promise on his skin, he knew Jaskier was still alive to reclaim his bargain price.

It helped settle him enough to gather what he’d needed for this impossible quest. The silver sword was ironically less than useful against faekind so he put it back in his leather sheath and buckled the iron blade onto its usual place on his back. Most of his potions would be useless as well so he set aside a fair number to go with Roach into the mage’s keeping. He pulled one of his packs off the ground and shuffled around his field rations to his liking, balancing the need to keep everything as light as possible and the reality that he didn’t know what to expect once they crossed over.

The scent of magic blooming sharp and heady behind him made him turn in time to see Yennefer pull out a small flower that seemed to send the scent of power spreading through the clearing. She turned it over carefully, her fingers gentler than before. “It’s feinweldd,” she said without looking up, “The fae use it to enhance their magic.”

He watched her for a moment. “Why do you have it?”

“They would be able to sense any magic I bound to an object, I think,” Her lips pursed as she dodged the question, telling him without words not to pursue it, “This might go unnoticed.”

“Will it be enough to get us both back to the Continent?”

She was kind enough to avoid asking him what he would do if he was unsuccessful. “Yes. All you’ll need to do is eat it and you both will be brought back here. Don’t lose it.”

Geralt took the small flower with gentle hands, trying not to notice how easy it could be destroyed. He tugged free a scrap of cloth from one of his older shirts and carefully folded it around the plant in a makeshift case. If he was lucky, none of the fae would notice the bit of fabric when his other weapons were more clearly a threat.

He whistled Roach over and took a moment to run his hands over warm muscles and breathe in the familiar scent of grass and leather. The mare leaned into the touch like she sensed the goodbye that was coming. Geralt pulled a blade of grass free from her mane and leaned his forehead against the strong muscle of her neck.

“If anything happens to her while I’m gone, I will destroy everything you’ve ever touched,” he swore.

The mage smirked. “Noted. Nothing but the finest grains and grasses for the horse.”

“Roach. Her name is Roach.”

“The  _ horse _ will be fine. She’ll be far safer than you will be.”

Geralt ignored the warning and gave Roach another pat. “Open the portal and I’ll hand over the djinn.”

Yennefer moved toward the road with a flourish of her dark dress. This close, he could practically sense the nerves and excitement lurking beneath her smooth movements. Power pooled around each gesture, eager as any pup to return to its master’s call. He wondered how long she would be able to retain her independence from Aretuza before the mage’s council brought her back to heel.

“Don’t forget to keep the flower out of sight,” she warned as a portal coalesced into the air in front of them. He felt like he could practically taste the wild magic waiting on the other side. “That’s the only way you’ll be getting back to get your silly horse.”

“I know what needs to be done.”

He would get Jaskier back, he promised himself, no matter what.

“Try not to die, Witcher,” Yennefer said as she watched him step closer to the portal. “It would ruin the end of this story.”

Geralt turned at the edge of the portal and gave her a crooked smirk, tossing the djinn’s jar back to her. “Be careful what you wish for, mage.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The Fae Lands!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally getting into the meat of this story and the plot I cobbled together after this drabble became something that begged for more than a few chapters.
> 
> If you haven't looked over my other stories, you should know that when I first started writing on AO3, I wrote for the Court of Thorns and Roses books. A few of you were sharp eyed enough to already catch this. You'll find a lot of similar themes here as I am a sucker for fae mythology and fairy tale element.
> 
> Hopefully you enjoy my reimagining.

For the past two weeks, Geralt had done little else besides imagine what he would do when he finally found a way to get to Jaskier.

He’d considered fighting his way through the fae lands, but had quickly realized that even at his best, he wouldn’t last against an unknown number of enemies. He had no idea what to expect as soon as he was on the other side of the portal. That left him with the task of sneaking into a realm of magical creatures that no one seemed to escape alive.

He knew the risks. Just like he knew that he would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t try.

Whatever Jaskier was, he belonged with Geralt--just as Geralt belonged with him. He belonged on dusty roads singing lyrics under his breath and laughing when Geralt managed to come up with a dirtier rhyme. Jaskier was a creature built to tease and thrill Geralt in a way no one else ever had even in his extended lifetime. He deserved to be happy and safe and far away from the creatures that ripped that life away from him. 

Clenching his fingers around the hilt of his sword, Geralt took a breath and stepped through the portal.

Immediately, the magic filled the air around him, thick with the scent of lavender and gooseberries. It made him think about makeshift picnics in the middle of the woods with water tumbling over the rocks nearby. He felt the pull of it deep in his gut and let it drag him away from the Continent and into the unknown.

Unlike the other times he’d been forced to travel by portal, the magic seemed fractious, riotous around him. It buffeted him back and forth. The hairs on the back of his arms stood up as though he were trapped in the center of a lightning storm and chased the air from his lungs. He clenched his teeth, trying to resist the urge to gasp for air when he knew there would be nothing but the vacuum of power leading him toward the lands of the Sidhe.

There was a sensation like gossamer threads brushed over his body, tugging against him like a net. Then, just as quickly he was free and the portal was dropping him onto his knees on firm earth.

He gasped, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air and let his forehead rest on cool grass while he tried to sort out the new sensations. The grass beneath him was a rich, deep green that had no place in the human realms and where dotted with streaks of pale grey. His fingers slowly loosened from their fists and brushed over them with a silent sound of wonder. A soft breeze that smelled like vanilla and something sharper ruffled the hair on the back of his neck and he slowly forced himself to look around. Above him, the sun shined down on him from a perfect blue sky.

The portal had dropped him on the immaculate lawns just outside of a massive castle that any king would be proud to claim. Pale marble stones had been carved into curving parapets and graceful turrets. Shrubs and bushes coaxed into ethereal creatures and designs lined the long drive leading up to the main gates. Spreading out into the outer edges of the sprawling estate were tall hedges that had been planted to form a dense maze in unnatural walls. It was a dizzying contrast to the woods at his back, ancient and wild as any of the Fair Folk. 

Around his neck, he felt his medallion thrum in a warning that seemed a little useless in a world that seemed to be seeped in magic. He turned over the familiar piece of metal, his fingers tracing the rough lupine features. It continued to vibrate urgently and, after a moment, he sighed and pulled it free from his neck to put it beside the feinweldd flower. 

Geralt frowned at the castle, trying to understand why the view was so unsettling. It took him another minute before he finally understood. Despite the massive size of the castle, there were no guards or people moving on the lawn or along the paths in the garden. There was also no sign of any defensive structures--something that spoke of the power that must have been necessary to create it and hold it.

He shivered, uncertain. Jaskier had never spoken about his life among his own people--or what had driven him to remain among humans. Geralt had always assumed it was boredom or curiosity that kept him there. Then, he’d begun to think that Jaskier had become attached to their life on the Path.

Now, he was beginning to wonder if it hadn’t been fear that created Jaskier the bard.

Brushing the thought aside as unnecessary, Geralt got to his feet and considered his options. The castle appeared to be the only sign of a settlement within eyesight and Geralt was reminded of just how much he didn’t know about this world. He had no trail to follow. No clever blue eyes to tease him onto a new path. All he had was pure stubbornness and the Jaskier-shaped hole in his heart.

He gave himself a quick once over to reassure himself that his potions, weapons, and the small flower Yennefer had given him were intact before setting off. As he walked, he kept his senses focused on the realm around him for any signs of life and tried not to let the silence unsettle him. Occasionally that strange breeze rustled through the strange bushes lining the garden path, but it felt muffled somehow. As though even the wind didn’t want to disturb the silence here.

Geralt scanned the garden around him warily. He could practically hear Vesemir’s warning to never trust a fae echoing in the silence around him. It didn’t take much to imagine how furious the older Witcher would be if he knew what Geralt was doing. He told himself that all he needed was to find someone to lead him to Jaskier and then he could get back to his own world.

In the end, there was no way to be prepared to shift from the hunter to the hunted.

One moment he was stepping around a deep red bush trimmed into the shape of a unicorn spearing through the heart of the satyr beside it, and the next he was surrounded.

A creature who looked like it was carved from the rich wood of a rowan tree stepped free from the tall hedges that formed the boundaries of the maze, growing out of them like some sentient branch. A hob, his mind hazily supplied from a vague memory from one of the many books in Vesemir’s library. Whatever artist that had sketched a small, impish looking character for the illustration had clearly never seen the tall, vicious looking lesser fae across from him. 

Broad ears in the shape of oak leaves were pierced through with several hoops that glinted with precious stones. The rough hewn trousers looked like they’d been woven from dried grasses and leather strips while its torso was only adorned with intricate tattoos that trailed over its collarbones like they’d been burned into wood. It narrowed dark eyes at him and Geralt tried not to focus on the way its eyes didn’t seem to catch the sunlight. Each of its limbs moved oddly, as though they possessed extra limbs that didn’t bend in ways you’d expect.

The hob gestured at Geralt imperiously and he had barely a moment to feel the magic flooding the air before vines sprang up from the ground around him, wrapping themselves around him like ropes. He cursed, ripping one free from his arm so he could reach the iron dagger strapped to his hip. The vines hissed and jerked like living creatures when they touched the metal and he heard the creature give a scream of rage at the pain.

“Fuck,” he grumbled under his breath--so much for the element of surprise.

Geralt managed to rip another vine out of the earth and took several steps back to give himself some space to fight back. The hob took a step forward, the knobby peaks of his face twisting into a mask of rage. It opened its mouth and uttered a gutteral word that seemed to echo in his ears.

The Witcher moved forward, hoping to contain the fae before it could attack again, but a sudden blast of wind sent him flying back into the hedges. 

He caught sight of another tall male dressed in immaculate white robes stepping onto the path ahead of him before the hedge around him shifted like a living creature to wrap around him. His arms were yanked out and he let out a shout of frustration when he lost hold of his knife. Another ripped free the rest of his weapons until he was only left with the pouch with his potions and the feinweldd. The vines and branches tightened around him until it took effort to breathe past the bands around his chest and all he could do was glare at the two creatures moving closer.

“Intruder,” the hob rasped with a voice that sounded like dead leaves over rich earth.

The other male looked less than impressed by the Witcher snarling at him from a few feet away. Unlike the hob, his magic didn’t appear to leave any clear markers on his skin, but Geralt noted the way his robes seemed to constantly sway in a breeze that didn’t effect anything else around him. He looked over at the hob with an expression of distaste. “The Mistress is waiting for it.”

“Wait,” Geralt tried, “I’m looking for someone--”

His words were cut off as some unseen force wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air until dark spots darted at the edges of his vision. He flailed, muscles straining against his bonds, but couldn’t get any leverage. Just before he would have blacked out completely, the pressure eased and Geralt sucked in a grateful breath of oxygen.

The hob glared over at Geralt like he’d offended the creature somehow and waved an imperious hand at him. With a groan of protest, the branches pinning Geralt in place shifted like they were sentient and he found himself being moved down the path behind the hob and the other fae. 

Any other time he would have been fascinated by the display of power--so different from the mages of his own world--but all he could think about was the fact that he might have lost his only chance to escape with Jaskier. Oblivious to the Witcher’s thoughts, the two fae moved down the paths confidently. As they walked, Geralt caught sight of eyes and strange faces peering out at them from the shadows and plants along the path. He tried to twist so he could look back at them, but the vines holding him followed at the hob’s heels like a faithful dog.

At the end of the path, a towering pair of carved wooden doors kept watch over the quiet courtyard. Geralt stared at the intricate pictures that had been painstakingly set into the dark wood and tried not to think about the growing sense of unease in his gut. Strange creatures had been depicted at the base of a massive throne making up the center of the doors, topped by a single rose the same color as the blood dripping down his arm from his attack. Beside it, he thought he recognized the faceless figure standing like a sentinel beside the symbol of authority, but he wasn’t given enough time to contemplate it before the first fae pushed the doors open to let them through.

The hob stopped at the edge of the glittering black marble floor, odd eyes narrowing in distaste. It breathed something to the other fae and swept its hand in Geralt’s direction. Immediately, the plants that had been keeping him still loosened their hold and he was dropped without fanfare onto the path.

He winced, glaring at the vines curling back into the soil and rubbed the feeling back into his arms. The hob didn’t wait to see if he would try to make a run for it, just walked back into the plants with a faint rustle of leaves.

“Move along then, human,” the remaining fae ordered. “She will not be kept waiting.”

“Where are you taking me?” he asked mutinously.

The air around him seemed to vibrate with vicious intent as they glared at one another. The fae male bared his too-sharp teeth at Geralt, “You can walk or you can be dragged, human--but you will move.”

Geralt growled, hesitating another moment before moving through the doors.

His boots made a dull rhythm that wasn’t muffled by any tapestry or ornamentation along the colossal hall. The ceiling soared above his head, high enough that the torches’ light wasn’t bright enough to reach the shadows there. Whispers and soft sounds of surprise followed his path forward, but no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t seem to find the creatures responsible for the noise. His senses seemed oddly out of tune to whatever magic was at play here and it made him wish desperately for his weapons.

Each step was another foot deeper into the world of myth and fable. The creatures darting in and out of the edges of his vision had never been seen in person by any of his brethren. Already, he had enough information to change half the books in Vesemir’s libraries. He just had to hope he would survive long enough to return home. With Jaskier.

Ahead of him, fae dressed in a dark red surcoat with the same coat of arms as depicted on the front door guarded the entrance to a cavernous great hall. Geralt stepped between them warily, watching the way their eyes followed him from beneath the dull gleam of their helmets. The air elemental didn’t seem to notice them--all of his attention was focused on the throne at the far end of the hallway.

All along the walls were fae and Sidhe creatures of dazzling varieties. They shifted, voices chittering and screeching quietly with excitement at the sight of him. Power crackled through the air in waves that made him faintly nauseous. 

He scanned their faces, but didn’t see any sign of tousled brown hair or blue eyes.

Instead, he walked forward until he was at the edge of the dias where the throne was and stared up at the fae seated there.

The creature looking back at him was the kind of beautiful that had no place in mortal nature. She wore a gown that matched the deep red of her sigil overlaid with a glittering black cloth that dripped with rubies and fire opals. The neckline plunged in a daring v that exposed skin the color of pale cream and the swells of her breasts. Rubies dripped like blood from the necklace wrapped tightly around her throat. Her hair was the color of the first rays of sunlight, sweeping in loose waves over one shoulder with not a single piece out of place to weave perfectly in and out of a jagged crown of bone.

His breath caught when he raised his eyes to take in the splendor of her features. High cheekbones were scattered with a delicate spray of freckles that added to the unnatural youth she would always possess. The green of her eyes reminded him of the absinthe that the sailors drank--full of dark promise and twice as bitter. They lit on him with an unholy glee that made him grieve for the weapons he’d lost.

“Hello, Witcher,” she said in a voice that sounded like the scrape of a blade against bone, “I’ve been expecting you.”

Geralt took in a breath that sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence of the hall. “You must be the Countess.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold onto your butts! It's about to go down.
> 
> Thanks for reading and all your comments!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...

The creature in front of him smiled in a way that had little to do with any real happiness. It reminded him of the way sirens crooned their sweetest songs just before they struck. Her long fingers toyed with the opulent necklace draped around her graceful neck as she watched him. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised to see you here. It has been a very long time since I’ve seen a mortal.”

“I’m a Witcher,” Geralt reminded, “Not a mortal.”

He knew better than to let a fae think he was weak.

“It is all the same to us. You will live and die before I even bother to remember your name.” The Countess waved a dismissive hand and the crowd of sidhe tittered as though it were some clever joke. 

“And yet, you remembered to expect me.”

Around him, the crowd shifted uncomfortably. Uncertain. He could smell the painful mixture of their magic like a summer storm--all cloying flowers and rotting soil and electricity. His fingers itched for the weapons he’d lost, but took comfort in the fact that a Witcher was never truly disarmed. 

The Countess stared at him for a long moment before dismissing him just as quickly. She gestured off to the side and Geralt followed the motion in time to see a familiar face peek through the crowd. “Well done, Valdo,” she crooned, “perhaps we’ve finally discovered a use for you.”

The bard paled under the weight of her gaze, looking anything but grateful for the compliment. His dark eyes flicked once to Geralt with something close to guilt before returning to his sovereign. He bowed, low and scraping. “It is my pleasure to assist you, your maj-”

“ _ Don’t _ .  _ Lie _ ,” she cut in before he could attempt to ingratiate himself further. Valdo flinched at the look she leveled at him--there and gone before he could do more than open his mouth in a failed protest--then smiled that awful smile once again. “We both know that you only told the Witcher to come here because you wanted to avoid your own punishment. One that is certainly well deserved.”

What little color left in Valdo’s face disappeared beneath a sickly pallor. 

The Countess batted her eyelashes at him coyly, letting the tension in the room reach new heights as she considered him for a long moment. “I suppose you’ve done well enough for me to forgive your most recent transgressions...Say thank you like a good little worm.”

“T--thank you, my queen,” Valdo gasped, bowing jerkily and stepping backwards into the crowd which surged around him like the tide.

Somehow, Geralt couldn’t seem to be angry at the fae despite knowing that he’d warned the Countess that he was coming for Jaskier. He thought of the desperate way Valdo Marc had attempted to warn the Witcher away from going into the immortal lands. Or the way he’d added that Jaskier would have wanted him to stay away. There had been too much truth in each warning.

He could feel the weight of her eyes on him, waiting for him to react to the news of this small betrayal, but he refused to give her the pleasure of letting her think she’d won this.

“I’ve come for Jaskier,” he said instead.

Around him, the crowd of sidhe made soft sounds of surprise. He could see them at the edges of his vision moving slightly away from where he stood like they feared getting caught in the crossfire. 

“Is that so?” she drawled, her tone the same as a mother speaking to an errant child. 

“I was told that he was brought here to you.”

The Countess’ facade of civility seemed to crackle, like paint peeling under the enormous heat of her rage. “He has returned to where he belongs.”

It was the stiffness in her voice that gave him the first clue about why Jaskier was taken. If it had been an issue of disobedience or even a true anger that had led her to send her hounds after another fae, there would be nothing but satisfaction in its wake. 

This, this was something far more dangerous.

Geralt licked his lips, trying to resist the urge to scan the crowd for tousled brown hair and bright blue eyes. He told himself Jaskier would have come if he was there and let his heart find its rhythm in the knowledge that Jaskier had done everything in his power to keep Geralt away from this place for a reason. His fingers traced over the black lines inked into his skin and he imagined that they vibrated faintly with familiar power.

“He does not wish to be in your lands,” he finally said. “Or he would have come willingly after he got your messages.”

The last was a shot in the dark, but his gamble was rewarded by the smug expression on the Countess’ face. She tilted her head in a clear challenge. “Did you think I sent those monsters because of you? How terribly self absorbed.”

Geralt’s smile was its own challenge. “What better way to attract the attention of a Witcher than by sending your monsters?”

She surprised him once again when she threw her head back in a laugh that echoed around the chamber like bells. “Clever boy,” she said as her smile died, “but if you were truly intelligent, you would have stayed far, far away from me.”

The threat fell like a stone in the air between them. He could feel her magic curling around him, seeping into the muscles of his legs and pulling him to fall to his knees like the rest of her court. 

Baring his teeth in a snarl, he forced his spine straight. “He does not belong to you.”

Immediately the room went absolutely silent. The fae and creatures around him went still as stone in a way that humans could never manage. It left only the sound of his quiet breathing and the Countess’ deadly focus to fill the void.

“You are more foolish than I could ever have imagined,” she said softly. “Do you know what you have done to him?”

“I make him happy,” he replied, the words slipping free as easily as they never could in the mortal lands.

“ _ You make him weak _ .”

The Countess stood in a burst of that terrible speed that marked her as something far more cruel than her beautiful features could hide. He had to force himself to remain still as she seemed to catch herself before she threw herself at him. Death stared at him for a long moment.

Then, her fingers slowly relaxed from the claws they’d been curled into and her shoulders straightened into the picture of haughty grace. She smiled, blank and beautiful as a painting.

“You should have stayed away, Witcher.”

Before she could say more, there was a commotion at the edge of the crowd and Geralt turned in time to see a familiar figure forcing his way through the sidhe.

_ Jaskier _ .

He must have spoken the name aloud because the fae seemed to snap his focus to Geralt in the next instant. A painful mixture of relief and fear flickered across Jaskier’s face before it was blocked by a cluster of the uniformed guards that had been flanking the throne. 

Jaskier released a furious sound when their magic slowed his forward movement with bonds of thick green vines and black smoke twined around his arms and legs. “ _ No _ !” he shouted at the Countess, “Leave him alone!”

“Ah, Jaskier,” she said, “I wondered when you would arrive.”

Geralt tried to catch Jaskier’s eyes, but the fae remained focused on his sovereign. “You swore to me you would leave him be.”

“I told you I would not seek him out in the mortal lands.” A curling thread of doubt bloomed in the pit of his stomach when she looked back at Geralt with satisfaction. “Your precious Witcher came here of his own free will.”

“No...” This time the word was a plea and Geralt felt his knees tremble at the horrified grief in the fae’s eyes when he finally looked at Geralt. “You were supposed to be safe. I  _ told _ you to stay away.”

“I had to find you,” Geralt said, trying not to falter under the weight of all that he didn’t understand was happening here. “You didn’t want to go.”

Jaskier’s eyes closed and Geralt watched him sag in defeat in the arms of the guards.

“As delightful as this moment has been,” the Countess murmured, “I can only imagine how satisfying it will be when I find my own ways to entertain myself with your loyal little Witcher.”

This time there was no warning when the magic slammed into him.

It threw him back in a violent arc that ended with his head cracking back against the unforgiving marble floor. His vision went black and he could feel his hands spasming weakly in an ingrained attempt at getting back on his feet. Shadows were replaced with the blurry shapes of the sidhe around him circling him like sharks eager for blood. 

At some unseen signal, they pounced. A kobold darted forward to rake its claws across his chestplate, carving the leather like a knife through butter. Geralt tried to shove it away but another, unfamiliar creature grabbed him with hands strong enough to make his bones grime painfully together. It left him open to a blow to his ribs that emptied his lungs of what little air they could manage through the tight grip. He gasped and kicked out with both legs hard enough to break free, but unable to do more than land painfully on the ground.

Somewhere far away he could hear Jaskier screaming, pleading, but he couldn’t hear it over the pounding of blood in his ears. He choked, trying to roll away from the next attack, but only managed to shift their focus from his stomach to his spine.

_ “Geralt!” _

Another blow snapped his head to the side with a spray of blood and the familiar pain of a broken nose.

_ “No! Geralt!” _

In the distance, the Countess smiled and licked the blood from her fingertips.

“J--Jaskier,” Geralt rasped, spitting blood onto the floor.

He forced himself to straighten his wobbling legs and his swollen fingers to form the sigil for Quen. The shield blocked another lunge from a fae to his right and he watched the group of sidhe begin to circle, oddly grateful for the wall at his back. It gave him something to lean against and ensured they wouldn’t be able to surround him again.

Geralt forced himself to breathe through the pain of his injuries and to use the brief respite to his advantage. There was no hope of being able to fight his way free to get to Jaskier. Even if he had his weapons, he still would be painfully outmatched by the creatures around him. His magic was laughable against the natural gifts of any member of the fae and Jaskier wouldn’t be able to assist against so many.

A sylph threw itself against the shield and he had to grit his teeth to channel his magic into the faltering sigil. It wouldn’t be long before it collapsed for good.

At his side, the tattoo marking the bargain oaths he still owed Jaskier seemed to burn with each incriminating pulse of weakness through his battered body.  _ A favor _ , the memory of Jaskier’s wicked voice whispered,  _ you’ll owe me a favor. _

That quickly, Geralt knew what he must do. Licking the blood from his lips, Geralt raised his voice so that it could be heard over the sounds of his attackers. 

“I want to make a bargain.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere on the Continent Vesemir stares off into space and mutters, "Geralt better not be doing something stupid."


	15. Chapter 15

This time the laughter echoed from all sides of him.

Geralt panted, taking the brief respite as a chance to rest while he could. When no one rushed forward, he let his flickering shield disappear and watched the crowd part as the Countess moved closer.

Her footsteps made no sound despite the hard marble floor and each movement possessed an eerie kind of grace that reminded him of a snake right before it struck. She tilted her head, a dangerous look in her bottle green eyes. “A bargain,” she repeated, drawing the word out as her followers continued to snicker. “What could you possibly offer me?”

“A trade then,” Geralt amended. He carefully didn’t look at Jaskier when he continued, “My life for Jaskier’s freedom.”

“ _ No-- _ ” Jaskier’s hissed protest was cut off by another bolt of dark magic wrapping around his mouth.

The Countess let her gaze trace over the trapped bard a few feet away from her. Stepping closer so she could run a finger over his cheek in a mockery of a caress. Jaskier’s eyes blazed cold fury back at her, twitching beneath his restraints with effort. She lowered her voice until Geralt had to strain to hear her. 

“Would you like that, my love?” she murmured. “Shall I give you something to sing about? You always did enjoy a ballad.”

Jaskier glared at her, hatred evident.

“Perhaps with him gone you can finally stop fighting me so...after all, we used to have so much fun together.”

The Countess must have gotten bored with his silence because she gestured so that his mouth was freed once more.

“Let him go,” Jaskier growled. “This is between you and me.”

“Don’t be boring, lark,” she smirked. “Besides, I can’t pass up such an easy target.”

“If you want me then let him go.”

“How interesting that both of you have offered me the same thing.” She turned her back on Jaskier to walk closer to Geralt. 

It was an odd thing to abruptly know what a creature caught in a trap must feel like. At all sides, he could practically taste the fae’s excitement at the promise of bloodshed as they ensured there was nowhere for him to run. Even if he managed to get enough space to call up Yennefer’s portal, he knew he’d be dead before he could step foot in it. It was too much of a risk that they might use the portal to access the Continent en mass on top of that.

He met Jaskier’s eyes and tried to silently convey the message he would never speak out loud in front of the fae’s enemies.

_ This isn't your fault. I would have always followed you. _

“Your attempts at bargaining are as bad as your ill-fated rescue,” the Countess said. Geralt watched the hatred lurking beneath her mask of condescension and knew she would never allow him to take Jaskier. She talked closer, stopping only a few feet away. “You can’t bargain with something I already possess. If I want your life, little Witcher, I’ll take it right now.”

At the final word, a coiling wave of magic seeped out from her like a miasma. He tried to back away on instinct, but was trapped by the wall at his back. The scent of sickly sweet rot and decay filled the air until he was drowning in it. He tried to hold his breath as long as possible--he didn’t want to think about what would happen if it was allowed into his body--but he knew his lungs wouldn’t last forever.

“Wait!”

The Countess barely turned away, her eyes burning unnaturally bright against the shadows of her power. Her head tilted in a predatory way towards the crowd, seeking out the voice that interrupted her.

“You can’t touch him,” the voice was stronger now and Geralt looked past the Countess to see Jaskier standing like a general preparing himself for war. Those eyes didn’t dare to look back at the Witcher--not while a greater threat was so close. 

“Oh?” she asked in a soft voice. “And why would that be?”

“He belongs to me.”

For the first time, she appeared surprised by the claim. Her magic paused inches away from Geralt’s body and he sucked in a grateful breath while she was distracted by the bard. “Don’t be ridiculous--”

“Show her your arm, dear heart.” Jaskier remained fixed on the fae despite the way his voice softened when he directed it towards Geralt.

The Countess’ head snapped back to Geralt with a mixture of surprise and fury. He reached down to his sleeve where the tattoo seemed to throb along with his racing heart. Darting his eyes up once, Geralt tried not to think about the carefully blank expression on Jaskier’s face when the bargain tattoo slowly was revealed. Immediately, the room seemed to dissolve into shocked sounds of disbelief. He saw several of the fae dart nervous looks between the Countess and the restrained bard. 

Then the Countess lunged forward, fingers curving like claws as she ripped through the sleeve of his shirt to expose the delicate lines of the tattoo. She made a sound that grated in his ears painfully, nails biting into his flesh until his blood dripped onto the ground.

“As you can see, Geralt does not belong to anyone but me,” Jaskier said evenly. “Our laws will not allow his death until that debt is paid.”

“This won’t save him from me,” the Countess seethed. “You are still bound--”

“You can’t hold him without my approval. He belongs to me by right of our bargain debt.”

For a moment there was silence as the room took in the tattoo and all it meant. Geralt was torn between confusion and a degree of satisfaction that Jaskier had somehow managed to pull one over on the Countess. That all disappeared as soon as the bard shifted his attention to Geralt.

“Geralt--” The words carried a weight that he vaguely remembered from the night where they’d been separated and the Witcher felt a bolt of panic. “ _ \--leave _ . Now.”

His legs twitched, muscles bunching with the need to follow the order. Along his arm, he could feel the burn of the ink of the tattoo beginning to burn away as Jaskier pressed on the bargain magic. All thought seemed to bleed out of his brain as he focused on the command. He took a step, hand reaching toward the feinweldd--

“Not so fast.”

The Countess’ voice cut through the magic that made his mind numb to anything, but Jaskier’s voice. He shook his head, dazed and looked up at the fae as she moved closer.

“You don’t want to leave poor Jaskier alone here, do you?” she purred with false sympathy. “You worked so hard to find him after all.”

Geralt’s eyes flicked to where Jaskier was beginning to push against the bonds containing him. “Jas…”

“What a loyal wolf you are...Maybe we can find a new bargain for you.”

Jaskier started to shout something, but the Countess’ magic smothered the sound.

Geralt stared at her. “What do you want from me?”

“It’s true what the lark says about your bargain magic--foolish as it is--but I’m assuming you won’t agree to leave the Undying Lands without him.” When he only watched her instead of responding, she gave a small smile. “Bargain magic is our most sacred form of magic. Something we reserve to create the most powerful links between lives.”

Gold eyes went wide even as his mind struggled to piece together this new information with the memories of his time with Jaskier.

_ I couldn’t risk someone else coming along and taking advantage of you. _

_ I need to protect my investments. _

_ You’re mine. _

Not for the first time, Geralt felt the sinking feeling of being far outside of his realm of experience. Each being in this room knew more about magic and their own laws than any human scholar could manage. Jaskier had kept so many secrets from him even after their friendship had begun to deepen that Geralt was left with no other option than to listen to what the Countess offered.

“I won’t let you force him to stay here,” he finally said.

“Then we are at an impasse, dear Witcher,” the Countess replied. “I won’t give over my bard and you won’t leave without him.”

Jaskier made another muffled, furious noise.

“So how can we resolve this?”

The Countess pretended to think, playing the part of someone who didn’t know exactly what she was going to do next. “There are ways around bargain magic. Ones that would allow you to win back your bard and your freedom all at once.”

The words triggered a memory from one of the books he’d read in Vesemir’s library. “A challenge.”

“Clever, Witcher,” she crooned in a patronizing tone. “Yes, a challenge for your own life and the life of a fae.”

“For Jaskier’s life,” he corrected, seeing through the careful wording, “And freedom.”

“Fair enough. If you succeed in three tasks, I will allow you and Jaskier to go free.”

He dared a single look over at Jaskier in time to see the fae shaking his head viciously. 

It didn’t take much effort to know why. Challenges were well-known enough to trickle into the fables and lore surrounding the sidhe. Any village wiseman could tell a story of young men doomed to be trapped forever in the undying lands in an effort to save their loved ones. Worse were the tales of those who succeeded in their challenge only to realize they didn’t see all the ways the fae had manipulated the terms to suit their own wishes. They would return to their lands warped and broken in a way that couldn’t be healed.

Somehow, he would need to see through all the ways the most dangerous member of the fae would attempt to do harm to him or Jaskier.

“Three tasks within the next month,” he said quickly, trying to remember all the stories he’d heard, “Each must be possible using the skills and tools I have on hand and without any interference from your magic or your allies.”

The Countess’ eyes glittered with malicious intent. “Is that all?”

He tilted his head up in blatant challenge. “Jaskier is not to be harmed throughout the competition--or if I fail.”

“I cannot guarantee that he won’t be harmed after your death,” she rebutted, “Especially if he is as loyal to you as you seem to be to him.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. Then you must agree not to do any physical harm to him.”

“I would never wish to harm my sweet lark.” The smile she leveled at him made Geralt’s stomach roil in disgust.

“You would and you have.”

Her smile faltered at the snarl in his voice, but she only shrugged. “The terms are set.”

Geralt waited a moment longer, eyes moving between the Countess and the defeated way Jaskier continued to shake his head in mute protest, before slowly nodding.

“I accept these terms.”

Her smile was like the flash of bone through ripped skin. “Then let the games begin.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was little shorter than I'd like, but I figured it would be best to pause here since the next chapter will follow the first challenge. Lots of action to come!


	16. Chapter 16

The world was built out of ash and blood.

He stood, feeling the itch of the drying viscera splattered across his dented armor. When his fingers loosened from around the hilt of his sword, it pulled at the drying liquid and highlighted the paler leather beneath. His senses were dulled by the ripe scent of battle around him and the exhaustion that was begging for him to lay down and never get back up.

All around him, he could hear the muted weeping and cries of the wounded, combining into some melody of the damned. It lingered in his mind like lyrics that he didn’t want to understand. 

And at the center of it all...was  _ her _ .

She stood amongst the wreckage, smiling beautifically. Her footsteps continued evenly over the bodies as thought she were floating and he had to strain to hear the cracking of bones that followed her. The pale cream of her dress was stained in a rictus of blood and gore, glinting with an opalescent sheen. Her eyes were bright with near fanatical intensity as she approached.

A soldier twitched and tried to get out of her way, but her magic lashed out in a wave. It crept up his legs like tar, leeching life and power from its victim. The soldier shrieked, voice breaking like glass. He spasmed, crawling forward in a desperate attempt to get away. His skin cracked and turned black as though it were burning in some unholy fire. The Countess only smiled as her magic ate through flesh and muscle until there was only a bloated, rotting mass of flesh left behind.

He watched with a new understanding growing within him. This was the creature he’d given his heart over to. It was she who he’d so foolishly given the tools to ruin him along with their world. 

The crown of bone glinting on her brown seemed to laugh at him as she closed the distance between them to smile at the bloodstained warrior before her.

“My lark,” she crooned, “you make such sweet music for me.”

* * *

If Geralt had ever had a hope to have a moment to prepare for whatever game, it was quickly dashed.

“Shall we retire to the gardens?” she asked, polite as any noblewoman at tea. 

As if her words had been the cue all of the fae were waiting for, they immediately began to move toward the main doors. Their chatter was muted, eagerness tempered by the wariness that never seemed to leave. He could feel their magic crackling through the air like the ruffled feathers of birds’ wings. With it came their own nerves and confusion--a less than subtle reminder that this wasn’t what they’d expected.

Jaskier was hauled bodily away by the guards who’d bound him and Geralt was forced forward by another. He had enough time to meet wild blue eyes, bright with panic, before they were swept away by the crowd. Geralt felt a blade pressed against his back in a whisper of a promise before he forced himself to follow.

The Countess led the way through the doorway, her gown trailing behind in a glittering wave. Her followers followed in her wake, equal part terrified and eager to attract her attention. Whatever displeasure she’d felt at Geralt and Jaskier’s rebellion was hidden now beneath an inhuman mask that promised more pain in their future.

For his part, Geralt tried to use the brief respite to assess what tools he had left in his reach. His weapons had been stripped already by her guards and his gear was probably long gone here. The only thing he had left was the crumpled flower in his pocket and whatever signs he might be able to cast before he tired. He just had to hope he could complete the first challenge before that happened.

Outside, the day remained as idyllically perfect as it had been when he arrived. Whatever magic the hob had used to bring the hedges to life had already disappeared beneath the perfectly maintained lawn and topiaries. He scanned the space for some sign of what was to come, but was left frustrated.

As soon as he was led to the center of the empty lawn, the guards moved away from him. Their expressions were eager in a way that made Geralt’s nerves twitch in alarm. It didn’t help that the rest of the crowd had edged as far away from him as possible, preferring the shade beside the hedges and trees to whatever the Countess had in store for a Witcher who’d already tested her patience once today.

The fae spilled out into the lawn with all the aplomb of a group of nobles waiting for another performance. Geralt caught sight of Jaskier’s guards dragging him over to a covered pavilion and shoving him toward a pair of chairs that looked to be made out of living trees. The bard looked painfully blank--the only hint of the fury lurking beneath was the sharp, jerky movements of his gait. His hands clenched tightly around the delicate looking wood of the chair’s armrests until Geralt imagined he could hear the wood groan.

Jaskier looked like he was considering his chances fighting his way over to where Geralt was, but the Countess approached with poorly concealed malice. Her magic lingered in the air around her, rippling like heat and smelling of decay. Geralt tried not to think about what might happen if she touched Jaskier. Her hand reached out in a graceful gesture that had Jaskier twitching out of reach and her lips twisting into a moue of displeasure an instance before it was replaced with a vicious sort of anger.

He started towards Jaskier instinctively, but the Countess’ voice forced him to pause.

“Welcome, my friends,” she called, instantly silencing the scattered conversations. Geralt wanted to laugh at the way she’d already reshaped this to be her idea, but he didn’t want to risk Jaskier suffering for the insult. “It has been a long time since we’ve gathered for a challenge.” Her poisonous green eyes flicked to Jaskier with a mockery of affection. “And for our own Jaskier, no less.”

All around him the air filled with the tinkling laughter of dozens of fae.

She smiled beautifically at all of them before she pressed a finger to her lip as though she were thinking it over. “What shall we ask of him?”

Immediately, there were shouts and suggestions hurled through the air like knives. 

_ “Ask him to breathe underwater!” _

_ “Force the tides to stop moving!” _

_ “Have him fight the bard to the death!” _

The last suggestion made Jaskier’s face go pale and still in a way that made Geralt want to curl around him like a shield. Anything to keep him from experiencing the horrors that he must have already seen at the Countess’ hands.

Their voices rose into a wall of sound that made him wince until the Countess raised a pale hand.

“I’ve got a better idea.”

Magic burned through the air like she’d given some kind of signal that Geralt hadn’t seen. Beneath his feet, the ground rumbled in a wave that had him backing up instinctively. His hands went to the empty space where his weapons usually hung and he mentally ran down the list of curses Lambert had taught him while he waited for whatever fucking nightmare this bitch thought up. He imagined Vesemir would add a few more to the list if he knew what Geralt had agreed to.

The perfectly maintained grasses of the lawn groaned as the ground shifted like an earthquake trembled beneath its surface. He scanned the area warily, wishing his medallion was any kind of help in this world full of madness and magic. The woods at the edge of the castle’s ground darkened ominously and he felt a gust of wind blow through the trees that smelled of dead leaves and an aching sense of age.

Then there was silence.

For a moment, he thought perhaps he’d missed something--or even that the Countess had made a mistake. He dared to glance over at Jaskier, but the bard was only staring at the Countess with something close to fear on his face. The Countess remained unmoved, as beautiful and pitiless as a statue. Geralt shifted his weight, anxious and eager in equal parts to get this over with before the waiting drove him insane.

_ Thud _ .

_ Thud. Thud. _

The sound was distant, rhythmic. Branches cracked and creaked in protest as something massive made its way through the trees toward the waiting crowd. One of the fae gave a feral shriek of excitement that was nearly muffled by the footsteps moving closer. He could feel their excitement reaching new heights with each sound of his approaching foe, but he couldn’t afford to be distracted now.

A moment later he caught sight of a massive shadow through the trees and watched the highest branches shiver as it made its way closer like a hound to its hunter. The scent of decay grew stronger with each step and Geralt took a moment to curse every god he remembered that he didn’t have a weapon to protect himself with. Judging from the smirk on the Countess’ face, she was well aware of that. He forced himself to remain still even as the clues about the monstrous creature’s identity slowly allowed him to recognized just what he was up against.

A nue.

A creature ripped straight from the nightmares of the darkest fae and designed for nothing short of devastation.  He’d only heard of them in legends and whispered stories that even Witchers shied away from, but the brief descriptions left behind in Vesemir’s books were enough to ensure he could never mistake it. Most of humanity had already forgotten the old tales of devastation and terror. In that moment, he was jealous of their ability to forget what could lurk in the shadows. 

Unnaturally long limbs moved with eerie fluidity as it picked its way across the forest floor. Its arms supported the upper half of its body while shorter legs propelled it forward in an apelike movement that jerked oddly--as though it wasn’t used to moving so much. Skin gleamed wetly in the dappled light and revealed patterns that mimicked the gnarled bark of the trees and hid its shape. Weak shafts of sunlight through the tree revealed the true horror of its visage in the jagged lumps of flesh that ran along the ridges of its spine down to its chest and arms. It wasn’t until one of the odd shapes spasmed independently of the main body that he understood what he was looking at. 

The bodies of its victims.

It made it easier to make out the tawny fur of the rabbit that must have been snatched up a few minutes before; its eyes and limbs still flinching with the need to escape the slow digestion process. A broken antler rose up out of one muscular shoulder while an awful mixture of rotting skeletons and half-eaten corpses dotted the rest of its form. At its feet, the grass withered and curled into the brittle brown strands in a dark carpet. If he looked closer, Geralt imagined he could see the limbs of the trees above it twisting out of its reach in a futile effort to avoid its poisonous touch. 

All of this was ignored by the nue when the dark, gaping holes where its eyes should rest twisted to view him from across the field. Geralt could feel its hunger like a sickening caress over his skin. Its mouth opened into a gaping maw, exposing rows of jagged and rotting teeth in a gut wrenching smile while a dark tongue curled out of its mouth to taste the air like it was scenting the power beneath his skin.

Somewhere distantly he heard the Countess turn to Jaskier with a smirk.

“Let’s see how good your Witcher truly is.”

  
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by the word 'Fuck'.

“Fuck,” Geralt said with feeling as the nue turned its attention on him.

The creature started forward with the prowling gait of a predator. Its eyes scanned the crowd with hunger, causing several of the fae to shrink back in apprehension. Geralt spared a moment to wonder how many times the Countess must have used it to terrify her subjects before he was forced to refocus on the monster in front of him.

His mind scrambled for any usable strategy or flicker of information from Vesemir’s training and came up with nothing. Nothing but a near primal screaming in his mind that told him he needed to get far, far away from here. The tattoo along his forearm burned and throbbed like a bruise, urging him forward like a pounding heart.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he said again as he watched the impossible weight of the creature leapt forward with a stunning display of agility and batted a massive, clawed hand at an unfortunate member of the court that attracted his attention.

The nue made a noise of frustrated pain when the Countess stood, throwing a hand out in unmistakable command. Its dark eyes narrowed, mouth opening to release a hiss that grated through the air like broken glass and Geralt knew he was running out of time.

The courtyard offered no coverage for him to hide behind or to block the nue’s attacks. He needed a weapon and he needed a way to stay far away from the nue’s clutches. Briefly, he considered the iron fencing that divided the palace grounds from the gardens. A glance told him that cutting across the lawn to head into the hedge maze was equally unlikely--the creature would be able to cut him off before he reached them. That left him with the options of charging the nue directly or running for the castle instead. 

Geralt turned on his heel without any interest in foolhardy bravery and sprinted toward the row of guards standing near the entrance of the castle at his back with a barely sketched idea of getting his hands on one of their weapons. Behind him, he imagined he could feel the snap of the nue’s attention as it honed in on the movement instead of the silent crowd in front of it. The ground shuddered with its first step as it lumbered forward eagerly, speed unnecessary when death walked with it. 

Ahead of him, he watched the fae guards’ eyes widen with horror as the Witcher and the nue approached. Their muscles trembled with the need to run from the creature of nightmare heading in their direction, but, just as quickly, their eyes darted over to their Countess. He watched fear for their lives come up against the fear of what their leader would do to them if they disobeyed and lose.

Ignoring them, Geralt aimed his mad dash toward the smallest of the group, hoping that surprise would be enough to give him something to win this impossible task. Whatever magic a Witcher could produce was likely child’s play to a full fae, but he imagined their experience with his kind was limited enough that they wouldn’t know what type of magic to expect. He just had to pray to whatever gods were listening that the nue wouldn’t reach him before he got his hands on a weapon.

Unfortunately, the guards seemed prepared for his plan and clustered together, blocking him from escaping into the building where the creature’s size would be to its detriment and ensuring that attacking them would lose him whatever time he’d gained by running. Gritting his teeth, Geralt slid beneath a spearpoint and slammed bodily into the weapon’s owner. 

He felt magic strike his side and let the momentum of the hit roll them enough across the grass. It brought them out of range of the closest guards--a gamble intended to play off their fear of the nue. His opponent’s hands scrabbled at him, body twisting with the effort of shoving Geralt away without losing his grip on his weapon. Geralt clung to him doggedly, ignoring the blows that agitated his injuries with a single-minded focus on the sword. There was no finesse to their struggle, their skills hidden beneath the panic of what would happen if they lost.

_ Thud _ .

The sickly sweet scent of rot creeped like a fog across the earth. Geralt’s heart raced to meet it.

_ Thud. Thud. _

Geralt cursed as the guard managed a glancing blow across his cheek, but ignored the pain in favor of locking his hands around the fae’s iron sword and using his weight to force the immortal into the earth.

A growl.

Beneath him, the fae made a wild sound of panic as its eyes focused on something just over Geralt’s shoulder. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as a cold breath blew across his back.

Geralt rolled. 

A dark, twisting approximation of a limb flashed past him to connect bodily with the guard. Long, cruel fingers wrapped around the fae’s leg and Geralt heard the snap of bone resonate beneath the wild, animalistic scream of the guard. The fae’s fingers raked through the grass, desperate for anything that would slow the inevitable. Its eyes darted to Geralt, to the other guards, to the uncaring crowd for help and found nothing.

Sword forgotten, Geralt scrambled backward on his hands and knees. Strategy was forgotten beneath the overwhelming fear of being trapped beneath the awful, rotting mass. The creature was massive this close, easily towering above his prone form and blocking out the perfect blue of the sun. His chest heaved, panic swamping him in a way it hadn’t since he’d awakened after the Trials.

And still the guard screamed.

He didn’t wait to watch the nue drag the fae guard forward to join the rest of the creatures trapped within the rotting swell of its magic. He didn’t wait to see how long the guard managed to continue to fight against its hold or how long it took for the fae to go into shock. He didn’t listen for the cheers of the uncaring crowd or the smug smile of their Countess.

He ran.

His fingers sank into the dense ivy trailing up the side of the marble walls and fought the pull of gravity when he pulled himself upwards. The toes of his boots found whatever miniscule cracks and crevices that would ensure that he continued to put distance between himself and the nue before the creature continued its hunt. His breath rattled in his chest, panting with adrenaline and something close to shock. All he could think was focus on getting as far away from the ground as he could.

Geralt’s hands reached the lip of the first trellis and was midway up the next level when the guard’s screams finally fell silent. Distantly, he could hear the laughter of the crowd as they watched him scramble ungracefully up the side of the building and away from the creature.

“ _ This _ was what you risked so much to keep?” the Countess sneered, her voice magnified in order to ensure her derision carried across the courtyard. “I had hoped he would at least make this entertaining.”

Jaskier didn’t respond, but Geralt could feel the weight of his focus like a brand against his back.

He tried not to think about the desperation Jaskier had felt at the thought of Geralt being brought into the lands of Sidhe. Or how many times the bard must have seen the Countess’ games be played out just like this. He wondered if Jaskier had been asked to help or if he’d remained an unwilling bystander as he watched the naive and the foolish be ripped apart for immortal amusement.

He thought of the songs Jaskier preferred to sing--’ _ Not so dull and dreary, love--people don’t need more of that _ ’--and wondered how long Jaskier had run before he’d allowed himself to be caught. All to keep a scarred, bitter Witcher away from just this sort of end.

_ Fuck that, _ he thought with a vicious burst of fury. He wasn’t about to let that petty bitch of a Countess ruin whatever was growing between them. He wouldn’t let her hurt Jaskier in a way Geralt knew he’d never heal.

He was going to survive this fucking test. And the next. And the one after that.

Then he was taking his fucking bard home.

Beneath his hands, the castle trembled as the nue began to haul itself upward, its appetite unyielding despite the horror of its last meal. The knowledge was honed by the knew determination burning in his veins and Geralt began to scan the decorative spires of the roof above him for something he could use to end this. He guessed that between its size and strength it wouldn’t be long before it caught up to him. The vines he’d been climbing shivered and twisted in his fingers and he watched the bright green foliage go dark and brittle as the nue’s touch bleached the life from them.

Cursing, Geralt barely managed to throw himself sideways onto a carved coppice before the shriveled ivy crumbled completely. The movement allowed him to watch the nue carve its claws deep into the marble side of the castle to climb its way upwards, uncaring of the damage left behind. A window shattered as its back leg scrambled for footing large enough to support his weight and the nue used it to lever itself up to the next bank of windows. Its size was enough to slow its ascent, but it was obvious that whatever intelligence it possessed was enough to ensure that it would reach the roof eventually.

Geralt carefully didn’t think about the body still twitching feebly along its chest.

He levered himself up onto the sun-warm tiles and ignored the painful twinge radiating down the side of his body courtesy of the attack he’d suffered inside. Injuries could wait for someone who was alive enough to suffer through them--it was a privilege he would have to earn with his next choices.

Beneath him the nue was gaining ground rapidly and Geralt knew he was running out of time. He raced for the nearest sculpture--a inhumanly beautiful female who looked eerily similar to the Countess--and cast Aard. The sign slammed into the marble pedestal with a loud cracking sound and he slammed himself bodily against it. For a moment, it wobbled and seemed to linger in the air before gravity finally forced it down to the earth. He managed to look over the edge in time to see the statue slam bodily into the nue.

It screamed, pained and furious, and Geralt gave it a savage grin. If it could be hurt, it could die.

The thought gave him a surge of adrenaline that helped wash away the lingering traces of inhuman fear that the creature’s magic had triggered. He dared to look out across the lawn to where he knew the Countess was watching. The smirk he leveled at her was of unholy challenge and he raised two fingers to his forehead in a mocking salute before he dropped back from the ledge.

Judging from the rumbling beneath his feet, the injury wouldn’t be enough to stop the nue’s hunt, but he hoped it would give him a little bit of an edge. Unfortunately, there were no other statues close enough to use so he would have to find a more permanent method of halting it. Geralt forced himself to run forward, weaving his way through the decorative spires and eaves as quickly as he could manage without falling. There was little chance that the nue would only hunt by sight, but he might be able to use them to dodge an attack.

As he moved, he looked for anything that might be useful in this fight. At all cost, he knew he needed to keep the nue from getting its hands on him. Whatever black magic that kept it alive drained the life from others and Geralt had no intention of joining the fae guard. 

The only thing on the roof that looked remotely weapon-like were the sculptures dotted along the outer edges, but he doubted the nue would give him the time he needed to break another one away from its base. He’d hoped the height and limited room to maneuver would be enough to tilt the balance in his favor, but now he wasn’t so sure. He was a Witcher without any weapons going against a creature that even Vesemir hadn’t seen before. All he had on his side was a bit of altitude and a burning desire to watch the Countess fail. Maybe that would be enough.

A crackling sound made him whirl in time to see a clawed hand stretch over the edge of the roof and sink deep claws into the tiled roof to drag the rest of the beast up over the lip. The weight of it shattered the fragile roof tiles, but it ignored the rubble in favor of sweeping its eyes over the roof, breathing in like it could swell the life pulsing in Geralt’s veins. Part of him wondered if the nue would just absorb him or it would just drag him back to the Countess so his pain could be enjoyed by the crowd.

Geralt stiffened when the dark, lifeless eyes snapped to where he stood in the shadows of one of the eaves. His fingers tightened around the edge of the carved wooden edge, gritting his teeth against the overwhelming frustration of this task. He had no intention of letting himself be killed so easily which meant he had no other choice but to succeed.

The nue moved forward, clawed feet sliding over the roof and hulking frame contorting awkwardly to pass through the narrow path Geralt had used. He risked a glance over the edge of the roof and frowned at the sharp tips of the fence below.  _ If only he was a mage _ , he thought with longing, _ then he could use it to skewer the beast in place. _

A tingle of awareness made him duck a moment before the nue’s claws grabbed him around his middle. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he hissed as he was forced to scramble backward awkwardly, trying to keep his balance without allowing the creature to get a hold of him.

The nue lunged forward, dogged and determined to reach the prey it had been set on. Geralt choked on the scent of the rotting and decaying corpses that made up its body. It was faster than a creature of its size should be, moving in a way its mass shouldn’t allow. He was forced to continue scuttling backwards, slipping and sliding across the angled roof.

Each time he was forced to move backward, he found himself in possession of a newfound understanding for the creatures he hunted. There was a terrifying vulnerability in being the prey of some vicious predator intent on his demise. He knew there was no hope in continuing to try to avoid the nue--eventually he’d make the mistake that would cost him his life.

The problem was that there wasn’t any other  _ choice _ . His gamble that the roof would offer him more even odds against the nue hadn’t given him anything more than a few extra moments to regret challenging the Countess. At this rate, he’d be left grappling with the nue bare handed.

A furious roar loud enough to rattle his bones made him stumbled and it was enough to make him lose the small amount of distance he’d managed to maintain.

Rough claws wrapped around his middle and Geralt let out a raw sound of pain. It pulled him forward, ignoring his attempts to yank himself free. A cold, rancid breath blew over his face, bitter as the last gasp of a dead man. Its eyes fixed on his face, burning with a hunger that would never be appeased. An unholy exhaustion rippled through his limbs, teasing him with the idea of just letting himself be pulled forward. Of letting himself  _ rest… _

A burst of painful heat along his forearm made him drag in a shocked breath and see past the fog of the nue’s magic. 

Geralt floundered and tightened his fingers around the odd mixture of bones and grave dirt that was wrapped around him. Just the touch of them was enough to turn his fingers pale and lifeless as the creature absorbed the life from within him. He managed to wiggle enough that the hand of the nue was wrapped around his waist, but couldn’t manage to free himself before its massive head was moving forward, mouth open to expose jagged teeth.

Thinking quickly, Geralt reached out to grab desperately at the antler still attached to the remains of a skull in the creature’s shoulder and used it to pull himself free from its hand. He ignored the drag of claws and magic clinging to him in favor of using the amalgamation of the nue’s last meals to get onto its back. 

The nue shrieked, throwing himself backwards and to the side in an effort to shake Geralt off. Geralt gritted his teeth, clinging stubborning to the bones and fragments of a tree limb. It hissed, feral and furious at its continued inability to regain its prey. They staggered into the closest eave, stumbling dangerously close to the edge of the roof.

Distantly, he could see the crowd of fae in the distance, somehow able to see the pale face surrounded by a riot of dark curls. He looked out over the edge and knew that there was no way he could take Jaskier home if he didn’t finish this. Somehow it didn’t make it any easier.

Geralt tightened his hold on the bones in his hand and gathered the last of his waning power. He knew he wouldn’t get another chance to get this right. He waited until the nue threw itself to the side once more before he through his hand out. His quickly cast Aard struck the side of the nearest eave with a crackle of power that seemed to ricochet into the nue’s side.

For a moment, Geralt thought it hadn’t worked. He could feel the beast’s muscles bunching with effort as it tried to to maintain its hold on the roof. It screamed with rage and a new fear as they slowly began to topple over the side and into the empty air. Geralt felt them begin to tumble and could do nothing else but push himself away from the nue’s bulk and hope.

_ “NO!”  _ Someone screamed.

Then the world went black.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in the wilds of Continent, Eskel stares up at a darkening sky and frowns. "Why the fuck did Geralt ask me about fae?"


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all, I know I'm not known for softness, but I really tried here. I hope this helps soothe some of the hurts I create.

Geralt thrashed, pressed back into the earth by the weight of the creature. His lungs burned, air was slowly pushed out of his chest. Dirt and rotting leaves pressed against his face along with all manner of things he didn’t want to identify. It shifted around him, filling the space around him until he could barely move.

A new panic swamped him, channeling his thoughts away from anything besides the desperate need for air. For light. For  _ Jaskier _ .

Desperately, he stretched his fingers out into a familiar pattern and felt the magic leave him in a familiar rush. Around him, he felt the nue’s body shift and he had one panicked moment where he thought the creature might still be alive. Was he going to be trapped within it like the guard had been? How long would it take before he finally died?

His chest felt like it was on fire now and his muscles bunched with the effort of pushing against the tremendous weight on top of him. He was rewarded with a miniscule movement and the pressure on his arms lightening a small amount. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the ache in his body and focused all of his effort on getting his arms free.

It felt like it was years before he managed to move himself more than a foot from where he lay. The nue’s body was little more than a pile of rotting corpses and dirt now and Geralt was grateful that he couldn’t get enough air to breathe in the scent of it. All of his senses felt muffled and distant against the need to drag himself out of the horrifying mess he’d found himself in. He used the extra room to maneuver to cast another Aard and dragged himself forward before he was buried once more.

The first breath of air was a revelation.

He sucked it in in greedy gulps, ignoring the burn in order to pull the rest of his torso out of the remains of the nue. Blinking away the grit and dirt, he swiped a hand over his face, feeling the trembling of his limbs that signaled the end of a hunt and the adrenaline that kept his injuries from making themselves known. It was a painfully familiar sensation.

Then there were hands on his shoulders and he floundered, flinching away from the unexpected touch. The arms around him only tightened their grip, pulling him against a surprisingly strong chest. He sucked in a breath and, for the first time, smelled something besides the nue’s rot. 

Sunshine and meadow grass. 

Geralt scrubbed a hand over his face while reaching out to grab whoever held him with bruising force—adrenaline making it impossible to soften— but they only tightened their grip.

“--are you hurt? Geralt, you fucking idiot, I swear--”

Geralt blinked, fuzzy shapes finally giving way to the shape of something far more familiar. Wide blue eyes flitted over his face before glaring in the direction of the fae he could hear milling nearby. Jaskier’s doublet was covered in dirt and muck and there was a streak of something dark across one cheek. His fingers were encrusted with filth, but remained clutched tightly to the front of Geralt’s shirt.

He stared at Jaskier’s lips as they continued to form new words, becoming more urgent with each passing moment of silence from the Witcher. His head felt like it was filled with cotton, heartbeat throbbing in time with the injuries that were coming to life all over his body.

Jaskier shifted to wrap his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and pulled. The Witcher managed to wiggle a bit, kicking with his feet to help free himself further. After a few moments, they toppled over awkwardly beneath the weight as Geralt finally got his legs freed from the nue’s remains. They panted, both trembling slightly with a mixture of effort and the loss of adrenaline.

Around them, the fae stood in a huddled mass, eyes wide as they took in the hulking mass that had once been the Countess’ favorite beast. Without the magic holding it together, the nue had collapsed into a mound of rotting corpses, grave dirt, bone, and ragged bits of cloth. The stench of it was enough to ensure the other fae weren’t interested in coming closer and Geralt didn’t want to contemplate what he must be covered in. Somehow, being partially digested by a selkiemore was no longer the worst part of being a Witcher.

He was distracted by a hand reaching out to tugged a grimy lock of hair away from his face. “Are you still with me, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, heartbreakingly gentle.

Geralt managed a nod.

Jaskier’s lips twitched a little before he nodded in return and got to his feet. Instantly, the softness he’d shown the warrior was replaced by the haughty fae he remembered from their first encounters. The bard turned to face the Countess’ dias and sketched a laconic bow. “You will be relieved to see that the Witcher has successfully completed your first task, my lady,” he said, projecting his voice to be heard across the distance.

The Countess watched him for a long beat, her expression painfully still. Then she swept a hand out in a lazy gesture, “It is difficult to say if this was the fault of luck or skill.”

“Regardless,” Jaskier said easily, “the nue is vanquished.”

Around them, the crowd clapped, polite as nobles watching a game of gwent. Geralt tried to gather enough energy to glower at them, but it didn’t seem to quell the new curiosity they had for the Witcher. It was obvious that it had been some time since anyone had managed to upset the Countess’ plans.

“So it would seem,” she bit out, expression icy. The fae slowly stood, her skirts shifting in a practiced move designed to draw attention to the elegance of her figure. “I wonder how long his luck will play out.”

“With the task so clearly decided in the Witcher’s favor, I humbly request that he be given time to rest while the next challenge is decided.” Jaskier’s voice retained the easy eloquence of a nobleman before a queen, even if his eyes were lit with an unholy fire. “My lady.”

The Countess’ lips flattened at the insult before she plastered on a vindictive smile. “Of course, my lark,” she crooned and gestured to the guards nearest to her, “Show him to his rooms.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Jaskier’s bow was halted mid-motion when the Countess spoke again.

“Once the Witcher is settled, I expect you to return to my rooms to assist me.”

The implication made Jaskier’s spine go stiff and Geralt sucked in a furious breath. He started to force himself to his feet, but was stopped by the fae’s outstretched hand.

Only he was close enough to see the way it trembled.

“Of course...my lady.”

* * *

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

The words were the first to break the uneasy silence between them as they made their way back to the ‘rooms’ the Countess had given Geralt. The guards had directed them to a tiny, windowless room in the cold basement of the castle--likely a only a few hallways away from the dungeons. It was obviously intended as a holding cell and barely had room for the narrow cot and disgusting smelling pot in the corner that was thankfully empty.

Geralt looked up from where he’d been staring into space, nearly entering a meditative state as Jaskier bustled around him. The fae had settled on his knees beside the bed and next to the basin of warm water he’d demanded from the guards before they’d locked the door shut behind them. A pile of bandages and clothes had appeared along with the warm water and Jaskier had wasted no time urging Geralt out of his ruined shirt so he could examine the Witcher’s injuries up close.

It took Geralt a moment to find his voice, uncertain in the face of the painfully blank expression on Jaskier’s face.

“Did you think I would really leave you here?” he finally asked.

Jaskier snarled, tossing a cloth into the water with more force than necessary. When he looked back at Geralt, his eyes were inhumanly bright. “I expected you to  _ listen _ .”

“You mean  _ obey _ ,” Geralt snapped back, abruptly furious, “You forced me to leave you there, knowing the Countess wouldn’t let you return.”

“Of course, I-- _ Geralt _ \--” Jaskier’s hands reached up to run through his hair with brutal force, spinning away from Geralt so he could pace across the meager space. “--You don’t know what you’ve done,” he finally said.

Geralt looked away from him, down at his stained fingertips. “Did you want to stay here?”

“What?” Jaskier sounded startled by the abrupt question.

“I was never able to ask,” Geralt explained a little ruefully and feeling more tired than ever before, “It seems like no one ever asks you what you want so I’m starting now--do you want to stay here? With her?”

Jaskier’s hands trembled when he pressed them against his lips, face shifting through emotions too quickly for Geralt to begin to understand. The smile that he finally leveled at Geralt was too bitter to be mistaken for happiness.

“No,” he finally whispered, “I don’t want to be here with her.”

Geralt nodded, trying to breathe past the loosening knot in his chest. His fingers tightened into fists against his thighs and he forced his breathing to slow.

“Then I will make sure you escape from here,” he swore. “I’ll win for you.”

Jaskier sighed and released a ragged, disbelieving laugh. “Stubborn Witcher.”

Geralt looked up to smile softly at him, feeling bold. “You like it.”

The fae crossed the room to return to his place beside the basin and bandages. He wrung out the water and gently wiped away the gore covering Geralt’s face. His touch was shockingly gentle after the violence of the day and Geralt’s eyes fluttered closed at the sensation.

“Yes,” he said softly, “I really do.”

They fell into the kind of silence that came with a mixture of exhaustion and emotions that couldn’t be spoken aloud. Jaskier moved from Geralt’s face to his chest and arms once he was satisfied that each patch of skin was cleaned. For his part, Geralt allowed himself to be moved without protest, eyes slitted with weariness. When he was as clean as possible, Jaskier urged him up from the mattress and into the soft clothes that had been left out for him. They fit him like they’d been made for him and Geralt spared a thought for whatever magic could make such a thing possible.

Jaskier tossed the last of the dirtied rags into the water and fidgeted with the cuff of Geralt’s sleeve. “I wish I could put you in my colors,” he said.

Intrigued, Geralt arched an eyebrow. “Your colors? And here I thought I was just following around some bard.”

Jaskier snickered at the dry humor in his voice and reached up to tug on Geralt’s hair in mild rebuke. “Imp. I’ll have you know that I’m the best bard the Continent has ever had the pleasure of listening to.”

“I already knew that.”

The humor in Jaskier’s eyes faded into something infinitely more beautiful. He opened his mouth to respond, but paused at the sound of a sharp knock at the door.

Geralt could hear the guards outside shifting, ready to take Jaskier back to their lady but seemingly unwilling to risk the bard’s displeasure. He swallowed hard, hands clenching into fists at the thought of what might be waiting for Jaskier there.

Jaskier caught his hand in his and gently swept his thumb across his wrist. “You have to win,” he begged. “Promise me you won’t let her kill you.”

Geralt raised the fae’s hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss over his knuckles. “I promise.”

Another knock and Jaskier’s face went tight in a way that seemed to happen each time the Countess was mentioned. The fae looked at the door and his shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. “I have to go,” he whispered, “I can’t risk her trying to kill you before you get to the next task.”

Geralt nodded, but couldn’t seem to release his hold. Gently, he tugged the fae forward and pressed a gentle, always gentle, kiss against his forehead. His arms curled around the smaller man’s body until Jaskier was surrounded by the scent and strength of the Witcher.

Another knock, more insistent. “Lord Julian!”

“I’m coming,” Jaskier snapped before resting his forehead against Geralt’s collarbone and breathing deep. 

When the fae started to move away, Geralt had to force himself to release his hold. He watched Jaskier move like he was trying to paint the scene in his mind, bitter and wanting all at once. Each step felt like a blow, poison spreading with the knowledge of where Jaskier would be forced to go.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” he ordered a little desperately. The Countess would be searching for someone to take out her displeasure on and Jaskier would be the most likely victim of her rage. The thought settled in his stomach like rot.

Jaskier gave him a crooked smile as he pulled open the door. “How can I? You’ve already foolish enough for the both of us.”

They both pretended the soft click of the door sliding close wasn’t the sound of something precious ending.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft boys.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back with more plot, some answers, and a new character!

As soon as Geralt heard the door shut behind Jaskier, he found himself unable to focus on anything but what was going to happen to his bard when the Countess got her hands on him. It made the lingering warmth on his lips burn with something closer to regret instead of the emotion they were designed for.

He paced around the room without any care for the lingering pain of his injuries, letting the sensation center his thoughts. He thought of the cruel glint in the Countess’ eyes each time she looked at Jaskier and the possessive way she touched him. It was obvious that Jaskier wanted to get as far away from her as he could, but was trapped by whatever power the fae had that kept all her subjects in her thrall.

Eventually, he forced himself to settle onto the mattress and let his body rest. The padding was hardly better than the floor, but he had no interest in sitting anywhere close to the bucket in the corner. Mediation under duress had been a skill forcefully trained while he was still learning in Kaer Morhen and he put it to the test now.

He forced his mind away from the fear and longing that lingered in Jaskier’s eyes each time he looked at Geralt. The only way he could ensure Jaskier’s safety was if he made it through the next two tasks. His success against the nue had been little more than luck--he knew better than to assume that would continue. Somehow, he needed to be smarter than the immortal creatures who’d spent centuries preying on the mortals foolish enough to challenge them.

But how could he prepare for a task he knew nothing about?

A few hours passed as he considered that question and all the possibilities. Would it be another almost mythical creature for him to hunt? Or would she challenge him with riddles or impossible mental challenges? 

“I must admit, I never imagined humans would be this interesting.”

The amused voice only a few feet away from him had Geralt jerking to his feet and reaching for a weapon he no longer had.

On the end of his bed, a male fae lounged with indolent grace, uncaring of the inherent threat of the Witcher across from him. Dark hair was cropped close to his head, highlighting the wicked green of his eyes and the unnaturally handsome features of their kind. His full lips were crooked in a grin that spoke of honeyed words and hidden blades. Like Jaskier, he was dressed in the formal garments of a courtier with golden leaves embroidered around the high collar and shoulders before giving way to the rich, forest green of his tunic. Simple black trousers and boots completed the ensemble.

Geralt scowled and watched the fae’s smile widen into something almost sincere. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Direct, aren’t you?” the creature said, not bothering to pretend to be bothered by the aggression in Geralt’s posture. “I can see why Jaskier would like you.”

“You know Jaskier?”

A shrug. “Everyone knows the lark--although I imagine he is a different being entirely with you.”

Geralt frowned at him and the fae snickered.

“I’m Stryker,” he finally said, with a slight bow. “I’d say I’m your service, but we both know that’s not necessarily true, don’t we?”

“And you always tell the truth,” Geralt sneered.

“When it suits me.”

Geralt rolled his eyes as the fae settled himself contentedly on his bed, looking as though he had nowhere else to be. “What do you want with me?”

“A dangerous question.” This time there was enough menace in the shadows lurking behind the creature’s eyes that Geralt felt like he should be preparing for an attack. In the next moment, that terrible violence was gone and the Witcher was once again nothing more than a bored courtier. “I want to make a bargain.”

The tattoo along his forearm burned hot at the words, reacting as though Jaskier’s magic was offended by the very idea of him trying to bargain with another fae. His fingers brushed against the black lines, tracing them from memory, and he watched Stryker’s eyes drop to the mark of his bargain with Jaskier with something close to envy.

“I have nothing to bargain with,” he finally said.

“We both know that isn’t true.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

He pretended the words didn’t feel like a betrayal.

Stryker finally sat up, eager in the way Jaskier had been when they’d first met. Geralt could practically taste the magic lingering in the air around them, waiting for an agreement to be struck. 

“You have no idea what you started when you convinced her to accept your challenge,” he said. “The Countess was foolish to assume that you wouldn’t surpass her tasks.”

“I still have two more tasks to complete. She won’t make the mistake of underestimating me again.”

Stryker looked thoughtful. “The Countess is powerful and cruel enough to do whatever it takes to keep her power, but she will never understand the loyalty that binds you to the bard.”

“Loyalty won’t keep me alive.”

“No, it won’t. Which is why I want to help ensure your victory in the next two challenges.”

Geralt frowned. “In return for what?”

The fae leaned forward, mouth curving into a cruel smile. “When you defeat her, you’re going to help me kill her.”

For a moment, Geralt was so surprised that he only blinked at the other male. Experience had taught him that the cruelest of rulers would always create the fiercest of rebels when pushed too far. Where Jaskier had attempted to disappear in the mortal world, this fae must have remained behind and suffering through whatever nightmares the Countess had created. 

“If you hate the bitch so much, why don’t you just kill her yourself?” Geralt asked.

Stryker looked surprised at the question. “Did your bard never tell you how the Countess became the ruler of our lands?”

Geralt frowned and shook his head, wondering if there would ever be a time where he didn’t feel like he was the last to know what was going on. 

“You know of Names, yes?”

The way he said it indicated this was more than just the titles given to you at birth. It wiggled free a piece of information he’d uncovered when he’d been researching the fae in Vesemir’s library. “They’re secret--meant to bind the power of your kind within your body.”

Stryker nodded. “True Names are precious and are guarded more closely than our own lives. It is the highest mark of trust to allow someone to learn your True Name because it would give them power over the core of any fae--our magic. It keeps us young, seemingly immortal. Without access to our magic, we would wither away.”

“The Countess has your Name,” Geralt said, eyes widening as he put it together.

“Not only that, she has our  _ magic _ .” 

The Witcher frowned. “Then how are you still alive?”

“She gives us enough to stay alive, but never enough to become a threat to her,” Stryker’s expression turned bitter, “After all, what’s the point of ruling without subjects?”

“But Jaskier was able to use magic in the human realm.” 

The fae scowled, picking at a piece of lint like he wished he were doing something far more violent. “The Lark is not like the rest of us.”

“Why?”

Stryker shook his head, standing abruptly and holding out a hand. “That is not my story to tell. Now, do we have a bargain?”

Geralt considered the flood of new information and the fae waiting across from him. With two tasks left, there was little hope that they would be anything less than brutal. The Countess would seek to take advantage of the weaknesses he was left with, keeping him unarmed and as weak as possible. His odds of success would decrease with each passing day along with the hope of Jaskier attaining his own freedom.

He thought of the way she had forced Jaskier to sit beside her like some prized possession and the myriad of unsaid horrors that lurked behind the way the other fae watched the two of them. Part of him hoped that Jaskier was bound to the Countess in the same way as the others--trapped beneath the binding of a True Name--but he was beginning to doubt it. Each time she spoke to Jaskier, she seemed to rely on centuries’ worth of tales that Geralt still didn’t understand and an almost manic obsession with keeping the bard by her side.

The Countess needed to be stopped--Jaskier’s life and freedom relied on it. The only way she would ever let the bard go was if she was dead.

Stryker’s bargain would give him a new ally and the possibility of more fae coming to his aid along the way. If the story Stryker had shared was true, many of the fae court would be supportive of a plot to remove the Countess from power and might make it easier for Geralt and Jaskier to leave this place. If it wasn’t, Geralt’s gamble would cause his death to be meaningless and Jaskier to be lost to the Countess forever.

“I don’t want your help in the trials,” he finally said, watching the way Stryker’s eyes widened in surprise. “The Countess will be looking for any excuse to nullify the challenge and I don’t want to give her cause to claim I cheated.”

“That will hardly stop her from using everything in her power to stop you,” Stryker scoffed.

Geralt shrugged, used to the idea of being the target of others’ hatred. “Then it will be even more satisfying when I defeat her.”

That startled an incredulous laugh out of the other man, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can see why the Lark is so fascinated with you,” he said. “Although I must say I’m disappointed that you won’t bargain with me.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t bargain.”

“Oh?” A feral sort of glint entered green eyes. “What do you propose then?”

“I’ll help you kill the Countess in return for you helping Jaskier free himself from these lands--even if I’m killed in the next tasks.”

Stryker considered him for a moment, face carefully blank. “You care for him that much?”

“Yes.” The word was simple, even if the conviction it carried was not.

“Why should I offer his freedom when you might just die in the challenges? It would be a wasted effort.”

“Because you don’t have any other choice.”

Stryker narrowed his eyes. “I could always find someone else to kill her.”

“I’m sure you’ve already tried.” The Witcher flashed a smug smile, used to being underestimated by others. They took one look at his size and scars and assumed that his intelligence must have been destroyed in the Trials. Stryker’s expression confirmed his statement so he continued. “Right now, I’m the only one who doesn’t have to worry about her using my True Name against me. She’s going to be so focused on me either way that you and your allies will be able to prepare yourself for the fallout either way.”

“Aren’t you an interesting one...Are all humans so willing to throw their life away?” the fae asked.

“I’m not a human,” he replied with none of the bitterness that usually followed the words. “I’m a Witcher.”

“Hmm.” Another considering look before Stryker finally nodded and held his hand out once more. “Very well. I’ll protect your precious Lark and get him out of this realm in return for you killing the Countess when you get the chance.”

Geralt didn’t miss the way Stryker’s eyes hardened at the mention of Jaskier. It was obvious that Jaskier’s life before going into the mortal realms had left him with more than a few enemies. He just had to hope that one of them wouldn’t come after the bard before Geralt could free him from this place. And that Stryker would follow the bargain they’d set instead of trying to double cross him.

“Deal.”

As soon as their hands touched, Geralt could smell the bitter ozone and power in the air like an incoming storm, spreading along his skin until his hair stood on end. He gritted his teeth against the unfamiliar magic settling against him--some part of him wanting to pull away to avoid letting any part of Stryker mix with the memory of Jaskier’s bargains. Somehow he knew that Jaskier would see it as some sort of betrayal.

As soon as Stryker released him, his eyes dropped immediately to the tattoo along his arm. The black lines and delicate flower petals stared back at him, unchanged despite the magic he could still feel in the air around him. Relieved and confused all at once, he rotated both arms for some sign of another tattoo.

“Something wrong, Witcher?”

Geralt looked up to find Stryker watching him with a single brow arched. “There isn’t a mark.”

“Why bother with one?” Despite the easy tone, Stryker’s eyes had dropped to the tattoo on his arm. “A mark isn’t required for bargains--too conspicuous. Can’t have other humans know when we make deals with their compatriots.”

The Witcher frowned hard, feeling like there was something he was missing. 

Before he could open his mouth to ask, Stryker clapped his hands together and smiled. “Now that that’s dealt with, we can move on to more exciting ventures. We have a banquet to crash!”

“What.”

Stryker gestured to the bed and the package of neatly wrapped clothing that hadn’t been there the first time Geralt had looked. Rolling his eyes at the unnecessary drama of it, Geralt didn’t move towards the clothing, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning until the fae scowled back.

“The Countess is holding a banquet tonight,” the fae explained with an exasperated tone, “She forces all of us to attend.”

“I doubt the invitation extends to me.”

Stryker smirked, eyes glinting. “Which is why you’ll be going as my plus one.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You don’t have to, of course,” the fae drawled, “You can just hear about what sort of things she forces the Lark to do at the next challenge.”   
  


Geralt snarled, stepping forward aggressively.

Stryker didn’t back down from the obvious threat. “If she’s focused on  _ you _ , she won’t be focused on tormenting  _ him _ .” 

“Why do you care what happens to him?”

“I don’t,” he said easily, “but I’d  _ love _ to ruin her night.”

Geralt sighed, reaching for the clothes left for him. “There better not be any fucking tights in this.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, Stryker is one of my favorite OCs I've ever created. He's such a little shit.
> 
> Next up: the Banquet!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some plot before the next task!

The halls of a faerie queen were designed to instill awe and fear in equal parts.

Geralt walked uneasily beside the strange fae who’d brought him out of his cell with little more than a charming smile and a wink. Aside from fidgeting with the clothes he’d handed Geralt, he’d been oddly quiet as they made their way toward the festivities and Geralt didn’t need the experience of learning to read the subtle tells of Jaskier to recognize the tension in Stryker’s careful indolent expression. The fae anticipated violence at the feast and Geralt didn’t think he was wrong.

For his part, the Witcher was struggling to keep from tugging at the tightly fitted courtly attire he’d been dressed in. Gone were his usual, simple black tunic that he preferred. In their stead was a military style tunic in a deepy ruby piped with gold thread that matched the color of Geralt’s eyes. He couldn’t help but think Stryker had chosen the outfit because it made him look like some romantic ballad’s version of a hunter. The fae had even insisted on Geralt pulling his hair up into a bun that showed off the line of his newly shaven jaw.

It felt far too exposed for his tastes, but Geralt could recognize the clothes for what they were--armor.

“Don’t eat anything she offers you,” Stryker said as they climbed one last set of stairs to stand in the golden light of several dozen candle lit chandeliers. 

Geralt scoffed. “I know the stories.”

“The stories aren’t true--our food won’t keep you in our realm.” The two of them paused at the doorway to the massive dining hall and listened to the crowd go silent, “The poison she will put in it would, however.”

The Witcher’s scowl was flat compared to the impossibility of the room in front of him.

Light poured from the ceiling from the countless pinpricks of starlight scattered across an impossible night sky. As he watched, a comet burst into life and burned a hazy trail across a purple and blue galaxy. Planets hovered in the air to create the illusion of walking through the heavens above even as the tables glowed with lamps designed to look like captured moons. He had the odd thought that even Stregobor would be impressed with the glamour cast over the room.

The fae and immortal beings around the room were dressed to match the impossibly beautiful surroundings as though they’d all received prior warning for what to expect. They walked past a sprite whose gown glowed with a faint green sheen and whispered excitedly at a high fae female who seemed equal parts terrified and intrigued by the Witcher in their midst. A changeling dropped his glass of wine when Geralt glanced over at him before flinching guiltily at the startled yelp of his companion. After defeating the nue that afternoon, he could see the interest in the power that had been on display and the fear of what that could mean for them reflected in each of their tense expressions.

At the high table, the Countess watched their movement with thinly veiled fury.

Like her followers, she was dressed to match the nighttime sky above her. Instead of the gaudy, gleaming gowns of the fae around her, she’d chosen to wear a gown patterned in the pale gold of the first rays of dawn, darkening into the deepest violet at her feet. Her hair had been released to fall in pale spools of golden silk around her face, wild and perfect as any pagan goddess. In her hands, a glass of red wine shifted slightly as she considered the new addition to her feast.

Stryker ignored the thinly veiled hostility from the Countess and swept into an elegant bow, ignoring the way Geralt remained stubbornly upright. “You are more radiant than any star, my la--”

“Why is  _ he _ here?” The Countess’ voice cracked like a whip and Geralt watched more than a few fae in the room flinch at the sound.

“I was under the impression that I could bring an escort,” Stryker’s voice was the picture of innocence--complete with a bat of his dark lashes, “If he offends your delicate senses though, I can remove him back to the cells?”

The implication and subtle insult to the Countess’ power was enough to make her nostrils flare with distaste. Somewhere nearby, Geralt heard a slight commotion and he watched the fae look past him toward the source. The small, vicious little smile that curved her lips made his stomach go cold. “Of course not,” she said abruptly, “I’m sure Jaskier will be happy to watch his little human entertain another.”

Geralt turned, eyes immediately scanning through the crowd to find the bard slowly coming to a stop a few feet away.

It felt like a blow to the chest to be this close to him, but be unable to reach out and touch or smooth away the deep frown marring Jaskier’s face. The tattoo along his forearm seemed to burn as blue eyes flicked between Stryker and the Countess, clearly piecing together how Geralt had come to be here.

“Well then,” the Countess said before Geralt could do more than open his mouth to speak, to explain, anything but watch Jaskier’s expression go terribly still. The men turned back toward her as her expression turned self satisfied and she gestured to her table with her chin. “Now that we’re all here...won’t you join me?”

Stryker gave another quick bow and moved to sit at the empty seats at the outer edge of the table, ignoring the looks of disdain from the Countess’ courtiers. After a pause, Geralt slowly followed after him.

When Jaskier went to join them, the Countess cut him off with an imperious gesture. “Not you. For what good is a lark without a song?” she asked sweetly.

Jaskier hesitated, obviously not wanting to leave Geralt to face the Countess on his own. Then that perfectly blank, insincere expression Geralt remembered from the task that morning returned as the bard carefully pulled the lute from his back. Somehow, it felt worse knowing how much of the fae’s true thoughts and feelings were hidden beneath the cruelly insensitive creature he’d first met so long ago.

Jaskier’s hands were steady when he strummed over the strings and he shifted his body language to invite the rest of the room to join in the performance. “What shall I sing for you then, my lady?”

The Countess arched an eyebrow, settling back in her chair to pretend to think. “Something exciting, I think,” she said after a beat, “You’ve been so maudlin lately.”

Geralt went stiff with the implication.

“Of course, Countess. I have something new I’ve been working on that you might like.” 

Immediately, the room went silent. Even the stars seemed to dull--as though even the air around them held its breath as Jaskier prepared to sing.

It occurred to Geralt then how much of his true abilities the fae had been hiding from him as they traveled. Trying to merge the memories of the man in front of him with the bumbling bard who’d slipped and fallen into the mud more than once when they’d been traveling together. There was no mistaking the being that stood in the center of the room as anything other than inhuman, immortal. Powerful.

Jaskier’s face took on the look of concentration that always came before a performance as he brought his fingers across the lute’s strings, striking the first note. His foot came down in a counter rhythm, scraping across the floor to add depth to the sounds of his instrument. The melody was low, gritty, and Geralt knew instinctively that this was no upbeat ballad or romantic ditty.

“ _ I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found _ ,” the bard sang, voice husky with an emotion that made Geralt’s own heart leap, “ _ I’d be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground _ .”

The room around them seemed to fade into the background as Jaskier’s eyes met Geralt’s own and the Witcher felt his mouth go dry.

“ _ I’d be the dreadful need in the devotee that made him turn around _ .” His expression softened as he looked Geralt--something fragile and overwhelming in the expression. “ _ And I’d be the immediate forgiveness in Eurydice--” _

Those eyes swept away from the Witcher to glare up at the Countess in an open challenge.

_ “Imagine being loved by me.” _

A ripple swept through the crowd at the implication and Geralt watched the Countess’ face go inhumanly still.

He thought of the way the hounds had gone after Jaskier in the woods that night. How Jaskier had always been so careful to avoid the rotting fairy rings and any mention of fae sightings when they were traveling together. The expression on the Countess’ face when Geralt had arrived in her court had not been of a victorious leader bringing down a rebellious member of her retinue. It was something far more dangerous.

“I think his talent has waned after all those years in the human realm,” Stryker said in a voice carefully pitched to be heard around the table. “His earlier songs were much more fun.”

Geralt shot him a look, but it was the Countess who answered. “The Lark has always had an overinflated sense of his own talents.” Her eyes remained fixed on Jaskier as he turned his back to her to sing to the rest of the room.

Beside him, Stryker carefully selected a cut of meat from the platter nearby, eating as though he had no other care in the world. He made a pleased sound at the taste and leaned over to spear an extra piece for Geralt’s empty plate. “If only you had sent me into the human world,” he said with a smirk, “I would not have failed you, my lady.”

The Countess’ lips pursed. “Calanthe would not have allowed just anyone near her precious daughter,” she sneered, finally looking away from Jaskier to frown at Stryker. “I needed him to bring me the infant before any mortal mage learned of its power.”

Geralt looked up sharply, eyes darting between Jaskier and the Countess as understanding dawned. 

_ You will join me tonight at the celebration of Queen Calanthe. _

_ Jaskier, flitting around Calanthe’s courtiers, carelessly waiting for the moment when Pavetta’s knight would arrive. _

_ This isn’t what I imagined when I asked you to join me tonight. _

In the aftermath of gaining yet another debt and a child surprise, Geralt had never paused to consider the reasons why Jaskier had been there in the first place. There was no reason why a simple, relatively unknown bard would be invited to the biggest celebration in Cintra. Not unless he’d had his own reasons for attending and getting closer to the royal family.

The knowledge came with its own dull sense of betrayal. 

Did Jaskier still intend to bring the child to the Countess? It would be the perfect bargaining chip to gain his freedom from the lands of the fae. All it would take was for Jaskier to call in the debts that Geralt still owed and the Witcher would be helpless to resist.

Geralt watched Jaskier enchanted the room with his song and wondered if he had become just another pawn in an immortal game.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't see that coming, did you?


	21. Chapter 21

By the time Stryker stood and began to excuse them from present company, Geralt’s mind was a white noise of confusion and growing sense of understanding. Not that he understood Jaskier’s true motives in binding him with each of their bargains--no, that continued to sit beneath his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Instead, he now understood the dark humor in the Countess’ expression when she’d talked about how little he knew about the bard.

He followed in Stryker’s footsteps because he knew he would go insane if he continued to listen to the inane gossip and thinly veiled threats of the other fae. His eyes wanted to dart over to where Jaskier had finally stopped singing to drink deeply from a wine goblet and settle in to each some of the food set aside for him. Already, the Countess’ eyes lingered on the bard like a favored toy--newly returned to her and infinitely entertaining.

The halls outside of the inhumanly beautiful great room were quiet aside from a few guests seeking a quiet corner to pursue more pleasurable activities. A half dressed selkie shot him a look--half curiosity, half invitation--but scurried away when Stryker leveled a look in her direction. It was a mark of just how muddled Geralt’s own thoughts were that all he could feel was relief at avoiding another brewing conflict.

“You’re looking pale,” Stryker said dryly, “Is that normal for your kind? Or just a special skill of your own?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, familiar with this line of questioning. “Witchers are paler than most humans.”

“Interesting. Is that supposed to help you kill beasts?” Stryker looked intrigued with the prospect. Geralt wondered if the fae would change his glamour to make him look paler if he said it was.

So he just grunted, unwilling to discuss the various ways that marked him as something other than human.

The fae didn’t seem bothered, just continued walking back towards Geralt’s tiny room. “I’ve always found humans to be needlessly complicated and strange for such short-lived creatures. So willing to attack at the slightest provocation.”

“And your kind don’t?” Geralt asked, a little too sharply. Then a thought occurred to him, “You’ve never been into the mortal lands?”

“Ah, no.” There’s a familiar darkness lurking in the grim slash of the other man’s lips. “No, I’m not allowed to leave the court of our dear Countess.”

“Why--” 

“Geralt!”

They paused at the bottom of the stairs in time to see Jaskier stalking in their direction, something close to fury in his expression. Blue eyes darted between the other fae and Geralt before zeroing in on the Witcher. He came to a stop in front of him, angling his body so Stryker was partially blocked. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at him, feeling his own temper sparking at the accusation in the other man’s tone. “Going back to my cell.”

“I meant what are you doing  _ here _ ,” Jaskier growled, “With  _ him _ .”

“Was I supposed to wait in my cell like a good boy?”

Stryker snickered, but the bard only frowned at him. He shot a look at the other fae before he refocused on Geralt. “You don’t know what you’re doing--”

Geralt let out a sardonic laugh. “I’m beginning to realize how true that is.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Were you going to tell me why you brought me to the banquet?” The Witcher bit out and was rewarded with the way Jaskier’s eyes widened in surprise. “Or maybe you were going to wait until my new child surprise was born?”

Some emotion flashed over the fae’s face--there and gone before he could interpret it--before he seemed to return to the stoic mask he’d worn in front of the Countess. It made him furious.

“You used me,” Geralt continued, “all so your Countess could get her hands on the child. I want to know why.”

_ Tell me the truth,  _ he doesn’t say.  _ Tell me I can trust you. _

Instead, Jaskier only stepped back and put his hands in his pockets, smile dangerous. “You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to my bargain. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

The words landed like a slap and Geralt barely smothered the urge to flinch.

Stryker eased closer like he could sense the argument that was building on the Witcher’s tongue. “Come now, Witcher,” he said gently and it was a mark of how fucked up his life had become that he was being protected by the other fae, “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening. You need your rest.”

“Why do you care?” Jaskier snapped, shifting his focus to the other fae. “For that matter, what the fuck do you think you’re doing parading him in front of her like that?”

“Last I checked, your Witcher can take care of himself. He doesn’t need your permission to do what he wants. With  _ whoever _ he wants,” Stryker’s voice was low purr, implication as obvious as Jaskier’s growing fury.

“Careful, Stryker--before I decide to show you how I earned my place at court.”

The other fae’s eyes glittered poison green in the low light. “You’ve been gone a long time, Lark. Maybe I’ll have a few things to show you.”

“If you think you can use him to get to me--” 

Geralt stepped between them, a headache beginning to form in his temples. “I don’t need your protection and I don’t need you dictating who I speak too,” he told Jaskier, ignoring the hurt that bloomed in his expression. “Unless you intend to call in another debt, we’ll be on our way.”

Without waiting for Stryker to follow, Geralt turned on his heel and left.

* * *

A night meditating on the cold stone floor did little to settle the riotous emotions in his gut.

His knees ached from their position, but he ignored it. Pain was a familiar sensation after all these years and he preferred it instead of the tumult inside his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about Jaskier and how little it had taken for him to return to the distant, vicious creature from their first interactions. It hadn’t been twenty four hours since the last time they’d been in this room together and already everything had changed.

He wondered how much of their relationship was manufactured in order to ensure Geralt would do exactly what he had--risk everything to ‘save’ someone who didn’t truly need him. He had been so fucking  _ eager _ to play the hero, to be able to sweep in and save Jaskier from the villainous, unseen foe. Jaskier had played the part of the romantic hero so well--Geralt had never even questioned it. The knowledge was a cold chill in a heart he wished didn’t beat quite so quickly at the sight of the bard.

Above all was the embarrassment that Geralt had let himself forget what he was dealing with. He’d gotten used to the capers and smiles of the bard and forgotten the creature that lurked beneath. Jaskier the bard was little more than a glamour for the Countess’ favorite courtier. 

Now, he just had to hope that mistake didn’t cost him his life.

A knock at the door brought him to his feet before the guards outside opened the door to usher him up to the next task. He’d changed out of the tight courtly garments from the night before for a black tunic and pants that were more like his usual fare--if his usual fare was made of cloth untouched by mortal hands.

Stryker was leaning indolently against the wall when he emerged flanked by two soldiers and gave him an impish grin. “Sleep well?”

“Fuck off.”

The fae snickered, but didn’t look bothered by Geralt’s bad temper. If anything, he looked almost relieved to find the Witcher sharp and prepared for the coming challenge.

They followed the small contingent of guards up the same steps from the night before and towards the great hall. Geralt wondered if they thought he intended to make a run for it or if they worried he would try to attack the Countess if he was left to roam on his own. He wasn’t sure which he would prefer.

Instead of walking outside again, they continued into the massive hall where he could already hear the murmurs of an excited crowd. The guards pushed open the door and the Witcher found himself once more shocked by the casual power displayed by the fae Countess. 

Instead of the starry sky and endless galaxies of the night before, the ceiling churned with the grey clouds of an oncoming storm. He watched a flicker of lightning move across one corner of the room a moment before he heard the murmur of thunder. If he didn’t know he was still indoors, he would think they were out under the open sky. Stryker clapped him affectionately against his shoulder in silent support before he moved to take his own place in the crowd.

He took a step through the doors after him and glanced down in surprise when his boots sunk into soft earth, dark and rich. What had appeared to be the dark wood of the flooring had been replaced by a thick layer of dirt. At the edges of the room, fae and various other creatures oscillated between eerie stillness and sudden movement, making Geralt’s eyes dart between them and the fae waiting for him on the carved throne beyond them. Instead of remaining on the dias from the night before, the Countess and her throne had been moved to a balcony that overlooked the expanse of the room just below the edges of the clouds.

The Countess, of course, was dressed to match the tumultuous weather above her.

Her dress billowed around her like storm clouds, all greys and dark blue. The bare skin of her shoulders looked dusted with gold, drawing the eye to the delicate line of her throat and collarbones. A crown made out beaten iron graced her brow--a subtle display of power and fearlessness in the presence of the metal that could kill her kind. More than a few covetous eyes lingered on her from around the room--eager for her favor or her blood it was hard to say.

At her side, Jaskier stood silent as a statue in an outfit of austere black. The dark color brought out the color of his eyes and the grim expression on his face. It was as though he was designed to look like the shadow behind her throne. A sword with a jeweled hilt hung from one hilt--as much a part of him as the lute he’d once carried. When he looked out at Geralt, it was like looking at a stranger.

“Witcher,” the Countess greeted him as though they were old friends, “how good of you to join us.”

“I wasn’t aware it was a choice.”

Her smile turned near feral. “You’re welcome to admit defeat whenever you wish.”

When he went to walk further into the room, the guards flanking him raised their weapons in a silent command. So he just gave her his own bitter smile from across the distance. “After such a kind welcome? How could I?”

Her smile didn’t falter at the blatant challenge in his voice. If anything, she looked pleased that he wasn’t going to back down so quickly. It made an uneasy feeling take root in his stomach.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she purred. 

The Countess got to her feet with regal grace, spreading her hands to address the excited crowd. “Our challenger has returned,” she said in a voice that carried easily over the storm above them and the rising bloodlust of the crowd. “He has proven to possess the bloodthirsty skills his kind is so fond of, but cannot return to the mortal realms with his prize until he completes two more tasks of equal value to what he would take from us.”

Behind her, Jaskier’s jaw clenched.

“Just get on with it,” Geralt muttered under his breath.

“Our challenger has proven that he’s capable of great violence by defeating our forest guardian-” The reminder of the nue and how close he’d been to a horrific death made his stomach churn. He could almost feel the shudder of the crowd and wondered how many of them had grieved the guard who’d died there, “-Now, we must test how committed he is to his cause.”

The way she looked at him made Geralt wonder if she knew what had happened between Jaskier and himself the day before. He risked a glance at Jaskier, but saw nothing more than the living statue that seemed to take up the space the bard once had.

“Today’s task is simple. All the Witcher must do is get across the room to reach his precious bard,” the Countess intoned.

Geralt frowned, considering the room in question. While it was a large space, he estimated it would take him only a few minutes to sprint from his position at the door to where the Countess and Jaskier were waiting. The earth that covered the floor was thick and fresh enough that might stumble, but he doubted that would be the only danger the Countess had in mind for him.

As if his thoughts were visible on his face, the Countess gave a tinkling laugh and clapped her hands together. Two fae stepped out of the crowd, dressed in the red livery of her guards and staff. They hadn’t bothered to disguise their features with a glamour so he could see the lines of dark veins like the inner rings of a tree trunk circling their arms. Their eyes were fully dark, brown as the muddy silt at the bottom of a lake and watched him with distant malice.

Together they stepped to the edge of the line of earth and stood with only their fingertips touching, feet braced as though they were preparing for a blow. Instead, the ground beneath them began to churn and roil like something was moving beneath the layer of dirt. Geralt and several of the crowd were forced to brace themselves to stay upright as the tremors continued.

A moment later, the floor seemed to collapse in several places while others rose up in jagged lines and paths. He glanced over the edge of the nearest hole and eyed the water slowly rising to fill the space. The strange obstacle course continued to be defined by the fae’s magic, reminding him of Vesemir’s own madcap training routines. The ground continued to shift as it was molded with their magic until--with a final shiver--the room finally went still.

He tried not to let his thoughts show on his face as he began to pick out what appeared to be the easiest path across the room. Despite the added difficulty of the obstacle course, he still didn’t anticipate having any trouble completing it. The relative ease of the challenge made him wary, waiting for the moment when the Countess would reveal her own plan.

Above him, the Countess’ eyes glittered with anticipation.

“Begin.”

Geralt darted forward immediately, not willing to risk that she had more in store with him. The only plan he had was to complete the challenge as quickly as he could and get the fuck out of here. 

His feet hit the mud and sank a few inches before getting enough traction to climb over the first low hurdle. Dirt and muck splattered over his clothes as he carefully edged around one of the water filled pools. He was grateful that his weapons and gear had been taken up as his arms and legs became covered in a thick layer of grime until he was sure he was unrecognizable.

He kept his eyes on the crowd a few yards away and the course itself, ready for the moment when the Countess would reveal her true plan. It slowed him down from the mad dash sprint he’d originally planned, but he hoped it would keep him from running headfirst into a trap. Maybe there was another beast carved out of nightmares hidden beneath the dirt or hidden weapons triggered by a wrong step. Either way, the best strategy for him was to move quickly and steadily toward the end of the course.

When he was about a third of the way across the room, the sky above him gave a dull rumble and he heard the first sounds of raindrops striking the earth around him. Whatever magic that was used to create the storm kept it from bothering any of the crowd and seemed to limit the rain to the obstacle course itself. It took only a few moments before the ground began to grow dark and muddy enough that Geralt knew he would be forced to slow his forward dash.

Far above him, a clear drop of liquid fell toward the unwitting Witcher below, striking the back of the warrior’s neck and leaving a burning trail of agony in its wake.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More whump to come!


	22. Chapter 22

Geralt slapped a hand over the back of his neck, turning to try to see what had attacked him.

None of the fae were close enough to directly attack him and the storm overhead ensured that he couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other as they watched his progress. Maybe that was a good thing. As it was, he found himself missing his medallion like a lost limb. Even after straining his senses, there wasn’t anything he could directly link to what caused the sudden starburst of pain so he was forced to continue regardless.

The next drop was harder to ignore. It slid down his cheek like a knife’s blade and spread to his fingers when they reached up to swipe at the moisture. He stared at it as the rain began to strike the muddy ground around him. 

There was no mark left behind by the raindrop. If he weren’t still feeling the faint tingle of the sizzling discomfort against his skin, he’d imagine that this was just another figment of his imagination. Another drop and he hissed, flinching weakly away even if he was beginning to think it was useless.

He thought of the stories of impossible challenges. Tests that were meant to break, to destroy the bonds between the human and whatever they were foolish enough to believe they could challenge fate and win. 

The Countess was bound by the rules of the game in the same way Geralt was. She was honor bound not to create a task that was so difficult it was impossible to succeed--even if it might not seem like that to the person attempting to beat her. She couldn’t directly kill him, although she was able to offer something else, like the nue, the tools they would need to manage it. That didn’t mean she couldn’t make him regret every breath he continued to take.

In that moment, he wished it was true that Witchers didn’t feel.

Then he wouldn’t know that if he waited long enough the pain would become a low hum in the back of his mind. That if he just continued forward it would eventually stop--with his death or if he managed to reach the other side of the room.

Gritting his teeth, Geralt forced himself forward with as much speed as he could manage over the slick mud. Each step sent his feet deeper into the earth, making him remember the day Jaskier had first come to him. It felt like that bargain had been centuries instead of years ago, growing fuzzy with each step forward.

The pain and irritation from each droplet of rain seemed to only increase his agony instead of making it easier to bear. His breath shuddered out of his chest in ragged gulps and he shook his head, wishing that he had a way to avoid more of the burning lines of pain hitting each piece of exposed skin and seeping through his clothes like a blanket of fire. The steep incline ahead of him felt like a mountain instead of the obstacle course he’d first dismissed as simple. He could feel his vision going fuzzy and his muscle trembling with strain. It made him sloppy, lacking his usual grace and speed.

Maybe that was why he fell.

Geralt had a moment where his stomach lurched, where his eyes went wide and his hands scrabbled for purchase against the slick slope. His fingers sank deep into the mud, but he continued to slide downwards. Cursing, he rallied what little strength he could to try to slow his descent, to pull himself back up, anything but continued to be dragged into the open air below. His boots reached the edge, kicked out into nothing, and then he was falling.

The water closed over his head like a burial shroud. He could see the light of the lightning flashes overhead, but it felt like with every kick of his feet he only sank deeper into the abyss. It felt impossible that the gullies he’d witnessed the elementals creating could be so deep and wondered if it wasn’t the worst kind of justice that his life would end thanks to the same magic that had saved him, bound him so many times over.

His arm throbbed, burning in lines he’d traced enough times that they felt embedded into his very bones. Maybe they were. Maybe that was how he found the strength to fight the water’s pull and breach the surface to suck in air that tasted like damp earth and salvation.

The warrior’s hands dug into rich soil like a funeral in reverse, dragging himself out of the depths onto dry land. His muscles trembled, body shivering as though he’d been fighting against currents for hours instead of minutes. Thoughts came slowly, pulling free from quicksand-like exhaustion and burning like the memory of sunlight. Beneath them was a burning coal of urgency. He needed to--

He...

Whatever magic or madness that had brought him here seemed to dissipate like smoke, shedding like the water streaming off his clothes as he got to his feet. He looked up, swaying as he looked around.  _ Keep moving,  _ something in him urged, but he wasn’t sure where he should be going. 

He couldn’t  _ remember _ . What was he doing here? Where was he supposed to go?

Above him a storm raged, bringing down more of that awful stinging rain. He wanted to take shelter, but all there was was the strange field he was standing at the center of. Marble walls formed the edges of this strange fantasy, guarded by rows of creatures that twitched and faded restlessly with enough magic that he remained wary of moving closer. They seemed amused by his presence, pointing and sneering in equal measure. 

It made something in him furious. At his sides, his hands twitched like they were seeking something he no longer had. 

Above them all, a queen watched his movements with the same vicious intent of a snake. Unlike the others, she didn’t laugh or turn to joke with anyone around her. She just smiled a thin, cruel smile that dared him not to make a choice that would bring down the violence lurking behind her cold eyes.

“You seem tired,” she said in a voice that somehow remained clear through the storm and the mockery of the crowd. “Perhaps you should rest.”

_ No _ .

He frowned back at her, uncertain. More rain seeped into his hair and along his face, burning like a brand and making him look toward the balcony protecting the others with longing.

Her expression shifted from malice to merciful so quickly he found himself wondering if he’d seen it clearly before. Her hand extended in a graceful sweep, as though she were reaching across the distance to him. “It’s not fair that you have to suffer so. Come, you’ve already proven yourself enough.”

Behind her, a shadow shifted.

Guards in red uniforms shuffled to push back another, dark clad body. He tracked the movement, feeling the sensation of apprehension growing. The crowd seemed equally alarmed by the guards’ presence though the women above them remained unfazed with her arm outstretched.

“Come and rest,” she crooned. “There’s no need to keep fighting now, is there?”

The words felt like their own kind of wound, like there was some vital part of himself that was missing. He let his eyes drop back to the strange, muddied space around him as though he would suddenly come across whatever it was he was looking for. Absently, he brushed his hand over his forearm, wrapping his fingers around it like a bracelet.

Why was he unable to believe the words this stranger so sweetly murmured? Even her expression felt poisonous beneath the thin veneer of sympathy.

One of the fae--dark haired and frowning--moved away from the crowd, heading for the stairs that led to the upper balcony. He could hear the sounds of fighting getting louder, voices raising in challenge and fury both. The queen of this strange court’s eyes narrowed and he felt power crackling through the air like the lightning overhead.

_ Move _ , that strange voice within him urged.  _ You have to keep moving. _

More rain splashed against the earth around him, stinging like a million bees. He shuddered, teeth chattering from a mixture of pain, exhaustion, and the chill of the water seeping through his clothes. The longer he waited to make his decision between the woman above him and the tug in his gut to keep himself in motion the more likely the choice would be taken from him when his body collapsed. He had to--

“Stop him,” the fae queen ordered.

At first, he thought she was speaking to him, but her eyes had dropped to the crowd below her and the scuffle that continued just out of sight. He remained torn between the urge to run forward through the mud and muck and the growing need to see what could possibly inspire such fear in her impossible eyes.

Another muffled curse and the unmistakable thud of a body striking the ground and his choice was made.

The creature that fought his way forward was as painfully exquisite as the first rays of dawn after a long, cold night. Beautiful in the same way of the stars in the heavens and, like the stars, seemed to guide him forward with burning certainty, pulling the breath free from his lungs to shape the part of his soul that the waters had stolen--

“ _ Jaskier _ .”

As though the name was its own key, memories flooded in to reclaim the holes left by the magic in the watery trap. The bargains. The bard. The challenge. It left him shuddering and painfully raw, vulnerable in a way that felt like torture in front of an audience.

Jaskier stood panting at the edge of the course, eyes blazing like he was considering crossing the space between them. Abruptly, it was easy to understand just whose voice he’d been imagining in the midst of his own madness. In the wake of learning just how much the fae had manipulated their relationship to serve the Countess, Geralt wasn’t sure how he should feel about his heart’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge what his mind perceived as a betrayal. Or maybe it was just the reminder of how little he truly knew about the fae bard.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, expression too complicated for the words that had never come easily to a Witcher. A plea and a reminder all at once. 

He watched the way the fae’s muscles remained tense with his hands still clutched into bloodied fists. It seemed at odds with the untouchable, haughty creature that appeared at the Countess’ call. Guarding his back against the guards still attempting to restrain him was Stryker, panting and looking rumpled from the fight to allow Jaskier to make it down to the main floor in an effort to remind Geralt of what he was fighting for.

Growling a curse, he forced himself to focus on the area around him, starting forward doggedly. Knowing what the water still pooling at the edges of the course could do didn’t make it any easier to avoid them. In the time it had taken him to remember where he needed to go and why it was so important, the storm of acidic rain had ensured that the dirt mounds and gullies between himself and the other side of the room had only gotten harder to cross.

He was going to win this, he thought fiercely. For himself and for whatever future might exist where he could learn the distance between Jaskier and the bard he’d traveled with.

Baring his teeth in a challenging snarl, Geralt dared to look up at the Countess and raised his fingers to his forehead in a mocking salute. Her answering hiss of rage matched the writhing clouds above them. The air tasted like violence.

Before she could order another attack or send her men after Jaskier, Geralt raced for the finish line only a hundred yards away. It forced his flagging strength to its breaking point, but he ignored the strain in his muscles. He topped the next hill and stared down at the last stretch of land with dazed relief.

He was going to make it. He was going to  _ win _ . All that stood between himself and his freedom was little more than a downhill sprint. 

In the corner of his eye, he could see Jaskier pacing the edge of the room--eager to see the moment when Geralt completed the challenge and the fae was no longer bound to stay away by the rules of the challenge. Apparently, the bard had given up any concept of being loyal to the Countess when he’d fought his way to drag Geralt back from the effects of the water. He looked over at Jaskier and dared to smile, equal parts exhausted and elated to be done with this. Even if the Countess’ focus remained a prickling weight against his skin.

There was a faint rumble, a buzz of electricity, and then the storm was  _ unleashed _ .

Once, when he was still new to the Path, he’d been caught in the middle of a hunt by a sudden thunderstorm. The water had come down in sheets, obscuring everything but the blurry shapes immediately in front of him. He’d barely managed to limp back to where Roach was waiting in a nearby town nearly twelve hours later looking like a drowned rat.

Now, he imagined he would remember that storm with fondness after experiencing the devastating might of the Countess’ fury. 

His mind went blank, whiting out as the pain from each droplet combined into a fever pitch. The air left his lungs in a gurgling noise as his lungs emptied, body rebelling against the impossible strain. He must have made some sort of noise--a scream, a plea--but he couldn’t hear anything over the roar in his ears.

He hit the ground in a distant thud, writhing against it. Someone shouted his name, but he couldn’t  _ think _ , couldn’t do anything but gasp and try not to bite through his tongue.

There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape the neverending onslaught. His eyes remained tightly shut, jaw painfully tight as he curled into a ball of misery there on the ground. He tried to force his body to move, but couldn’t seem to do more than twitch as each drop of rain felt like it was ripping into his flesh.

“--ve! You’ve got to get up!”

It hurt. Gods, did it hurt. 

“Geralt!”

He just wanted it to end. Please, let it end.

“Come on, baby--” The voice was urgent now, scared in a way Geralt was no longer able to comprehend, “--Get up, Geralt!  _ Now _ !”

Weakly, Geralt pushed his hands under him, trying to force himself to his feet. His muscles trembled wildly and he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the lines of burning agony against his skin. He shook his head, sending the droplets in his hair through the air to cling to his skin.

“That’s it. Now  _ move _ .” This time, there was no ignoring the command beneath each word.

It was obvious that Geralt wouldn’t be able to walk--not like this. He was drunk on pain and unable to focus on anything but the urgency in Jaskier’s voice. Doggedly, he dragged himself forward.

“You’re almost there, baby. Just a little farther.”

The water flayed him open, pulling apart his skin to mix with the mud beneath him. 

“ _ Go _ , Geralt. Don’t slow down.”

Geralt fumbled, arms collapsing to send him face forward into the wet earth. He panted, but couldn’t seem to organize his thoughts or his limbs to do anything but tremble.

“No no no no--come  _ on _ , Geralt. You’re so close!” Jaskier was caught between a growl and a plea now. “Don’t do this. Don’t let her beat you.”

_ I can’t, _ he wanted to shout back.  _ I can’t. _

The bard sounded like he was only a few feet away and Geralt’s hands clenched around mud instead of the warm skin he longed for. 

“Don’t…” the fae’s voice cracked dangerously. “You have to survive this. I can’t---I can’t lose you.”

Geralt took a deep breath and reached out with one hand. He dug into the mud, pulling himself forward with the aid of a weak kick of his leg. He moved.

Time seemed to disappear, seeping into the space between each drop of rain that landed like blows. There was nothing but the next movement, the next hard won foot, then yard of ground. Nothing but the desperate need to  _ keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing _ .

His fingers brushed the smooth edge of a marble floor.

Then there were arms reaching out to drag him bodily into the safety of the warm body curled protectively over him. He saw a flash of blue eyes in a pale face before he let himself slip into the darkness.

  
  



	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags and rating for this story have been altered. That's my way of warning you that they're about to get it on. 
> 
> If that's not your gig, no worries! There will be no major plot points occurring in this chapter aside from the sex and a love confession. You can pick up the story in the next chapter.

The next time Geralt came awake, it was to the sensation of fingers dragging through his hair in a slow sleep. Some part of him recognized the long, clever fingers even without his lungs filling with the drugging mix of summer skies and the faint cedar that lingered even when there was no sign of a lute.

Beneath him, soft sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and a feather mattress were a far cry from the thin cot in his cell. It was a cool comfort against his bare chest--someone must have stripped him down to his smalls after the trial. He could hear the far off chatter of birds that had no place in the mortal realm. His body was still painfully sore although there was no itch of open wounds left behind by the acidic rain the Countess had created. 

He contemplated opening his eyes, but wasn’t ready to address all the problems waiting for him. The argument between Jaskier and himself lingered in his mind like a steady poison, twisting and festering the memory of their last moments together. How was he supposed to face the fae knowing that he’d been misled? And how was he supposed to address how often he found himself instinctively reaching out to the fae even when all reason and his training told him not to? 

“Geralt?” 

Jaskier’s voice was rough--with sleep or the same alarm that had flooded him during the challenge, he wasn’t sure. It was a marker for how closely he must have been watching the Witcher sleep that he’d noticed the minute changes that indicated he was awake again.

Geralt forced himself to open his eyes and take in the sight of the fae stretched out on the bed next him, back leaning against the headboard. He might be an idiot for believing the caricature Jaskier had created, but he wasn’t a coward. He could face the reality of his mistakes.

Despite his determination to face the fae head on, he faltered at the sight of the dark circles lingering beneath his eyes and the rumpled texture of his normally immaculate clothing. Geralt recognized them as the same dark tunic and trousers that he’d worn to the challenge. He looked like he’d been up for days.

Blue’s eyes scanned over the Witcher carefully--as though he was trying to guess where Geralt might still be hurt. Those full lips pursed into a weak scowl. “You terrify me.”

The honesty in the statement left Geralt wrong-footed somehow. In all his imaginings of what it would be like to speak to the fae after learning about the Countess’ plans, he’d never expected such blunt honesty.

“How could I scare you?” he asked. His voice was a dry rasp, broken on the screams he barely remembered.

“You’re going to get yourself killed. Here, for me,” Jaskier abruptly looked away, jaw clenching like he was chewing on the words, “I can’t watch you keep doing this.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

The fae released a bitter sound of derision. “None of us have a  _ choice _ here. Not once she sinks her claws into you.”

“Is that why you did it?” Geralt said, twisting onto his back to stare up at the other man. He didn’t enjoy the submissiveness of the position, but he knew better than to think he’d be able to sit up under his own power. “Why you stayed in the mortal world?”

Abruptly, Jaskier’s face closed off into a blank mask. “You don’t want me to answer that. You don’t want the truth--you just want to stay angry at me.”

“You lied to me,” he growled back.

“I’ve  _ never _ lied to you. There is far more to this tale than you know.” The fae’s lips twisted with distaste. “You’d rather trust the word of a stranger apparently.”

“You’re making this about  _ Stryker _ ?”

Jaskier’s eyes flashed at the mention of the other fae, a territorial gleam in his expression. “Stay away from him. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“We have a barga--”

Abruptly, Geralt found himself pressed down against the bed with Jaskier’s body like a long line of heat against his front. The fae’s face was twisted into a feral snarl that should have been terrifying, but instead sent a thrill through him. Jaskier’s hands pinned his wrists to the bed, leaving him staring up at the bard with a mixture of surprise, frustration, and--if he was honest--arousal.

“You’re  _ mine _ ,” the fae hissed, “You’re bound to me.”

“I don’t belong to you!” Geralt growled back, furious now. 

“You don’t--” Jaskier made a frustrated sound, breathing deeply in an attempt to control himself. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully even and his shoulders drooped with something close to surrender. “You don’t understand.”

“How can I when you don’t tell me what the fuck is going on until it’s already caught up with us?”

The fae looked conflicted, eyes darting over to where Geralt’s tattoo was visible beneath his palm. “I don’t want to trap you in this world.”

Geralt thought of the fear that lurked in the crowd each time the Countess spoke and how each fae had the same terror and futility of an animal caught in a trap. It was obvious that they weren’t here by choice, just as Jaskier had fought to remain in the mortal lands. He wondered how often the Countess used that freedom as some far away reward for the complete devotion she sought. The knowledge was echoed in the fervent desire in Stryker’s eyes and the subtle desolation in Jaskier’s bought by years of reminders that she could rip away that freedom in an instance. 

That awful anger and betrayal that had tempered his every moment since the dinner party seemed to drain out of him all at once.

“You can’t have it both ways,” he said gently. “You can’t keep me and push me away too.”

“If I was a stronger man, I would have left you long ago.”

Geralt took breath and forced himself to channel a different kind of bravery. One that requires words instead of blood and steel. “Then why did you stay?”

Jaskier’s eyes tracked over the Witcher’s face as a sad smile curved his lips. “I’m selfish,” he whispered, “I wanted to pretend that I could stay there with you forever.”

“Why?” the Witcher repeated, soft.

There was a beat of silence where the world seemed to go still like the moment after leaping from some great height and you were waiting for gravity to take hold. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, matched by the frantic pace of the fae above him. Jaskier’s eyes flicked back and forth over his face like he was searching for something that left Geralt feeling far too exposed, too afraid to hope.

A breath, then--

“I’m in love with you.”

Geralt blinked, mouth falling open in surprise, and Jaskier continued with the sort of bravery that made Geralt dizzy.

“I think I’ve been in love with you ever since you dared to argue with me in that swamp,” Jaskier said. “Certainly after the striga. I pretended it was just the bargain that made me follow you across the Continent.” His eyes dropped to the tattoo and Geralt felt his thumb sweep out over the embedded ink. “It’s why I couldn’t resist giving you my mark. And why I dared to think I could keep you.”

He had to force the words free from a throat gone tight with fragile hope. “And now?”

“And now, what?”

“Do you still intend to keep me?” Geralt whispered.

Jaskier’s eyes snapped to his, lit with a near frantic glow. They dropped to Geralt’s lips and stayed there when his tongue darted out. “Be careful with your words, Witcher,” he rasped, shifting slightly so his weight was more firmly pressed against him. “I don’t think I could let you go again.”

The reminder of the moment when he’d been forced to leave Jaskier to his fate and the hounds’ cruelty made Geralt’s chest burn with remembered sorrow. He thought of the grief and sorrow that had driven him to hunt down a djinn and make a deal with a mage. He thought of the nights he’d spent staring up at the sky with nothing but the gaping chasm that had been left behind by the fae--the  _ bard _ .

Jaskier leaned forward, chasing away rational thought with his presence. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he watched Geralt with inhuman focus. “Fae are possessive creatures by nature,” he purred. “Once we have a taste…”

Geralt’s heart stuttered in his chest, blood rushing south.

A quick flash of teeth, feral and teasing all at once. “I can’t be satisfied with only a part of you.”

“And what will I get in return?”

Jaskier’s eyes went sharp--approval and lust in equal measure. “Are you trying to make a deal with me, you minx?” he purred, bending down to run his nose over the length of Geralt’s neck, hovering above the racing beat of his heart. “Very well. An even trade?”

In answer, Geralt tangled his hands in the thick mass of the fae’s hair to pull him up for a kiss designed to leave them both breathless. He leaned back far enough to murmur,

“It’s a bargain.”

If he expected the passion and quick fuck of previous relationships, Jaskier quickly proved that he intended something far more devastating. He teased at Geralt’s mouth, nipping and toying out soft sounds of pleasure, but refusing to let the Witcher deepen it. Each time Geralt pressed forward for more, he pulled himself away, grinning a little at the grunt of displeasure the action created.

“Stop teasing,” Geralt growled, arching his back slightly to rub himself against him. 

Jaskier ignored him to nudge his jaw to the side so he could suck a line of bruising kisses down his neck. He grinned at the restless, aborted movements Geralt made in response like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to move closer or farther away. Teeth raked over the tendon of his neck in mock threat that the Witcher answered with a shiver.

“So impatient,” Jaskier crooned, voice low and dangerous. “You’ve agreed to a lifetime of this--I intend to spend every moment of it ensuring that you know you’re mine.”

Geralt’s fingers dragged over a muscular back as Jaskier proved his mastery of rhythm each time he ground down against him until they were both panting. He plucked at the fae’s shirt, greedy for more skin. “Off,” he ordered.

Jaskier must have been just as eager because he leaned back to drag the offending fabric over his head. The movement brought his weight down over Geralt’s hips and a moan from his lips. He looked up at the lean torso and watched the muscles shift beneath pale skin with appreciation, unapologetic when the fae looked back at him with an arched brow.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked.

Geralt’s answer was immediate. “Yes. Even more if you stop fucking around and start fucking  _ me _ .”

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes and the growl he released was nothing short of inhuman. When he leaned down, it was to bare his teeth in a smile. His eyes tracked over the exposed skin of Geralt’s chest, tracing over scars lightly enough that his muscles bunched and twitched.

“I’ve been thinking of little else since I first laid eyes on you,” Jaskier admitted lightly--a contrast to the darkness in his eyes, “Now that I finally have you to myself, I find I don’t want to rush.”

“ _ Jaskier-- _ ”

The fae continued to run his fingers over Geralt like he was trying to map the contours of muscle and bones. He bit his lower lip, toying with it until the Witcher felt like he was mindless with the need to  _ take _ , to  _ taste _ . It felt like he would go insane without the bard’s hands on him.

“You’re exquisite. You can’t imagine how distracting it has been to only be allowed to watch you from a distance.”

He leaned down and pressed his front against Geralt’s chest in a shock of skin on skin contact, bracketing his arms around the Witcher’s head. This time the kiss was primal, visceral enough to leave Geralt making mindless noises of pleasure and lost in the sensation of Jaskier’s mouth on his. Clever hands soothed over sensitive flesh only to rip a shocked sound of pleasure when they toyed with a nipple.

The fae leaned his forehead against Geralt’s, breath warm against his face. “The sounds you make…”

The Witcher’s next gasp shifted into a moan when Jaskier moved down his chest, tasting and teasing his mark into flesh. Instead of continuing down to where Geralt was hard and leaking, he shifted down his arm. His fingers traced over the lines of the tattoo on his arm, eyes hooded. Something about the way he stared at him made something molten burn through his core, spreading through his veins in a heady rush.

Before he could speak, Jaskier moved on to plant a line of stinging kisses across Geralt’s chest, laving over a nipple until he gasped. He tried to reach down and pull Jaskier’s hips down against his in a dirty grind that made them both groan.

“Brat,” the fae gasped without sounding too displeased. Then he moved too quickly for Geralt to do more than blink in surprise when he found his wrist pinned firmly to the pillow above his head. Instead of being alarmed at the show of inhuman strength, he let out a raw, pleading sound, hips grinding upwards for some kind of friction against his aching flesh.

“Keep your hands there,” Jaskier ordered in a voice that made Geralt want to sit up and take notice. “If you move them, I’ll stop.”

It felt like an impossible task as the fae returned to his earlier task of driving Geralt insane. 

By the time he reached the edge of Geralt’s pants, the Witcher was a gasping, sweating mess. His hands were clenched into fists around the fabric of his pillow and his hips continued to twitch in weak little thrusts. He’d tried closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing, but Jaskier had stopped completely until he was sure Geralt’s eyes were still on him.

“Beautiful,” Jaskier breathed as he slowly pulled down the fabric of his pants like he was unwrapping a present. The compliment made Geralt’s cock twitch eagerly and Jaskier’s smile turned knowing. “You’re everything I never dared to hope for. Everything.”

Fingers calloused from years of playing the lute and hiding the darker talents of the fae who walked among humans, traced over the hard flesh. Geralt’s breath hissed out between clenched teeth at the sensation after being so long ignored. He felt like he was going cum from the weight of Jaskier’s eyes alone and his back arched when the bard’s thumb touched the sensitive spot beneath the head of his penis. It caused a shudder to ripple over his body and he closed his eyes to try to ride out the sensation, forcing them back open when he remembered the unspoken command to remain focused on Jaskier.

Jaskier rewarded his efforts by leaning forward to lap at the bead of precum oozing from the tip of his penis, humming with pleasure. The vibration shivered along his skin and left him gasping, unable to keep himself from thrusting his hips up to try to chase more of the sensation.

“Jas-- _ please _ , Jaskier,” he begged, voice breaking on another gasp when the fae’s mouth close over the tip and his tongue darted out to lick. His moan turned into a shout when he sank down without warning, surrounding Geralt in wet heat. “Fuck!”

“That’s the plan,” Jaskier rasped, voice hoarse in a way that made Geralt want to preen. Or curse. He wasn’t sure now.

“Stop being a tease then,” he managed and nearly wept with relief when Jaskier moved away to fish some oil out of his bedside table.

Then Jaskier was yanking off his pants to expose miles of glorious skin and muscle, dusted with dark hair. Geralt’s eyes fixed on the thick length of the fae’s cock as he moved, tongue darting out to lick dry lips as he watched Jaskier come closer. His hands swept up across Geralt’s legs to close around his cock in a slow glide that chased all rational thoughts out of his mind. He barely heard the bard open the vial of oil or rub his fingers through the liquid until it warmed. A slick finger brushed over the sensitive skin of his perineum, making him jerk, before continuing to trace over his entrance.

That wicked finger continued to massage and tease until the muscle relaxed enough to allow him to sink in with a slow slide. Geralt clenched, then forced himself to breathe through the familiar sting of the stretch and tried to resist the urge to fuck himself on the digit.

“Gods, you’re tight.” Jaskier’s eyes were fixed on his finger as it continued to move in a steady rhythm. Geralt took in the sight of his body sprawled out along the sheets, face intent as he focused on Geralt’s pleasure, and to fight through his body’s reaction, biting his lip until it bled. 

Geralt waited until the stretch wasn’t nearly as noticeable before nudging the fae with his foot, spreading himself further. “More,” he demanded.

The other man must have been just as eager to get inside of him as Geralt was because he did so without protest, both of them making a soft sound when Geralt stretched to accommodate it. He scissored his fingers and crooked them, searching for--

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Geralt managed to gasp when those clever fingers brushed over his prostate and sent pleasure skittering along his nerve endings.

Jaskier only crooned wordless praise, continuing his assault until Geralt was arching off the bed, torn between the need for more and an escape from the overwhelming sensation. A third finger pressed in and Geralt shouted at the delicious contrast between pleasure and pain. He gasped, mindless, up at the ceiling, unable to think beyond each twist of the bard’s wrist and flutter of his fingers.

“Close,” he panted, “ ‘m close.”

“Are you?” Jaskier drawled and, if Geralt couldn’t feel the hard line of him along his leg, he might have believed he was unaffected. “Are you going to come for me?”

Geralt opened his mouth to respond just as the bard shifted  _ just so _ and his mind went white with pleasure. His orgasm swept over him like the tide, dragging him under until he was left a trembling mess in its wake. Jaskier’s fingers continued to press against him intimately, teasing out more tremors and gasps until he finally went still.

The bard’s free hand shifted to stroke soothing lines over his thighs and stomach. It helped center him and drew his focus to the low thrum of arousal that continued to seep into his bones. He cracked his eyes open to find the fae watching him, looking equal parts pleased and ravenous.

“Is it true what they say about Witcher stamina?” Jaskier asked with false innocence that was at odds with the way he licked a fleck of semen off his thumb. Geralt’s cock gave a valiant twitch at the sight.

Instead of answering, Geralt decided he’d had enough of laying back and letting Jaskier dictate how the night progressed. He used a move he was sure Vesemir hadn’t intended for this particular activity that sent the other man into the mattress on his back. Blue eyes widened with surprise and lust as Geralt continued the motion until he was straddling narrow hips and could feel the evidence of Jaskier’s interest against the globes of his ass.

“My turn,” he muttered, before swooping down to claim Jaskier’s lips in a searing kiss.

For long moments, he was content to allow his body time to recover as he licked, bit and tasted the sinful heat of Jaskier’s mouth. The oversensitivity left behind by his first orgasm kept his muscles fluttering in slow waves and kept him from immediately begging Jaskier to fuck him. The fae’s hands tangled in Geralt’s hair, tilting his head just so to allow their tongues to slide against each other in a lewd tangle. This time there was no teasing, no soft touches--only a promise of what was to come.

When his patience ran out, he reached behind himself to line Jaskier’s cock up with his entrance, enjoying the way Jaskier seemed to go completely still. Their eyes met as Geralt slowly bore down on the blunt head of the fae’s cock, letting out a shaky breath when he felt the head breach him and Jaskier’s hands clenched tight around his hips. He let him move slowly, getting used to the stretch, and watching Jaskier’s control slip out of his grasp.

By the time their hips were flush together, a muscle in Jaskier’s cheek was fluttering as he clenched his jaw to avoid thrusting. Geralt slowly brought himself up, rotating his hips to ensure Jaskier’s cock brushed against the bundle of nerves on the way down. They both groaned when he sank back down.

He set a rhythm that ensured both of them were panting and the air around them went humid with the scent of sweat and sex. Jaskier’s hands remained planted on his hips, urging him to continue moving. His cock stretched and moved within him like it was made for him. Each brush of skin a new understanding of pleasure. There was none of the usual discomfort of learning a new person’s body, just an endless wave of heat and sizzling electricity.

The world seemed to drop away. It felt like falling, like breathing in the first gulp of oxygen after going underwater or opening his eyes to a new reality. There was no Countess or the looming challenge left to worry about. There was only the movement of their bodies and the racing heartbeat roaring in their ears.

“That’s right, love--ah! Yes, fuck--You’re so good, Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice continued to croon praises that made Geralt’s skin flush hot and his pleasure continue to build with the dual onslaught of sensation. “So good for me. Taking me so well.”

He could feel his orgasm pooling at the base of his spine, speeding his movements instinctively to chase after that peak. There was determination in each rise and fall of his hips, eyes fixed on Jaskier’s face. The desire there felt like its own drug--too intense to look away. 

“Wanna feel you,” he rasped, voice breaking mid-word when Jaskier’s hips snapped up in a quick thrust. “Make me yours.”

Strong arms abruptly reached up to pull him forward so they were chest to chest. Jaskier’s knees bent and spread to give him the traction he needed to starting fucking into Geralt with force. Each movement hammered his cock into the cluster of nerves that had him arching and seeing stars. His hands reached out for an anchor, latching onto the fae’s shoulders as wordless sounds of pleasure continued to spill out of his mouth.

Jaskier’s hand trailed down his back to cup Geralt’s ass and spread him wider. It allowed him to reach further and press his fingers against the place where they were joined, feeling the movements of his own cock as he buried it deep. The angle had Geralt’s cock brushing up against Jaskier’s stomach and had him hurtling closer to cumming again.

“Please, please--fuck!” Geralt groaned as he felt the familiar building heat. His fingers tightened around Jaskier's arm and he felt his body beginning to coil tight, ready to fall off that final ledge. 

Jaskier reached down and wrapped his hand around Geralt’s cock, stripping it time with his own thrusting hips. It only took a few pulls before Geralt cursed and felt his release stripe his chest. The fae released him, hips losing their rhythm as he followed the Witcher over the edge.

For a long moment they lay collapsed against one another, catching their breath. Jaskier’s body was draped over him like a blanket and he felt the tension ebb away in the wake of all that had happened. 

The bard shifted to brush a kiss over Geralt’s collarbone, examining a new mouth-shaped bruise there with satisfaction. “We should probably clean up,” he said without making any move to do so.

“Not yet,” Geralt murmured, eyes drifting shut. 

There was a sleepy smirk, but no protest.

Jaskier slowly pulled himself free from the clutch of the Witcher’s body, hushing his exhausted protest by curling around him with his head on the pillow next to him. The fae’s fingers moved to traced over the lines of the flowers and ink there, heart a steady pulse near Geralt’s ear. 

He felt Jaskier’s fingers slow, then stop their steady movements as the bard drifted into sleep. Geralt risked opening his eyes to see the sleep softened face of the creature he’d risked everything to save.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Jaskier smiled.

  
  



	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up.

Geralt woke up to the sensation of fingers gently tracing over his spine, raising goosebumps in their wake. He grunted, rolling over to trap Jaskier’s hand beneath him, and slitted his eyes open in mock annoyance. “Go back to sleep, fae,” he said in a sleep rough voice.

Instead of being offended by his surly bed partner, Jaskier draped his body like a living blanket across his front. His smile was pressed into the curve of Geralt’s collarbone along with a gentle kiss.

“I like waking up with you.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, grinning a little despite himself. “You’re a romantic.”

“Of course I am. I’m a bard.”

For a moment, they drifted, comfortable in the warm cocoon created by their blankets. Geralt found himself trying to embed this moment into his memory, knowing that there was little chance that it would last forever. Even if the Countess didn’t kill him in the next challenge, there were any number of creatures and people who would attempt to do the same. He might not have another morning like this again.

“I can feel you thinking,” Jaskier murmured. “Stop.”

Geralt let out a slow breath, trying to slip back into the comfort of the previous moment. 

The fae leaned back to look at him with worried eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s only one challenge left,” he said. “The Countess will be more desperate now to make sure we don’t succeed.”

“You will though. She’s not the first monster you’ve faced and no one in my memory has managed what you’ve already done. You were able to beat the nue and the effect of Niobe’s Tears--something that should have erased all of your memories.”

“It did.” 

He shifted uncomfortably at the reminder of the moments after falling into the water during the trial. There had been nothing left of his life or the fae he’d been willing to risk everything to save. He’d just never expected that all of that could be stripped away so easily.

“You came back to me,” Jaskier said softly, blue eyes serious. “You’ve never let me down before--even when you should have let me go.”

Geralt rumbled unhappily at the thought of the Countess’ hounds and the night they’d taken Jaskier away from him, tightening his hold on the other man. “If you’d been honest with me right away, we might have been able to avoid that.”

“If I was a better person, I would never have brought you into this.”

“Then we both would have been alone and miserable.”

Jaskier’s smile is fond. “Now who’s the romantic?”

“I guess you bring out the worst in me.”

They fall silent, content.

He knew it couldn’t last. “She’s not going to let you go, is she?”

“No,” Jaskier said dully, “she won’t.”

“Why is she so obsessed with keeping you here when it’s obvious you aren’t loyal to her anymore?”

The fae sighed and rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. “Centuries ago, I thought I was in love with her. We were happy together, for a time.”

Curious, Geralt watched the emotions flickering across his expression. “What happened?”

“I realized she wasn’t who I thought she was,” he said, lips flattened into a grim line. “I thought she was going to stop the wars between the fae by uniting us into one kingdom, but she was worse than all of them. She was a monster...one that I helped create.”

Geralt rolled onto his side so he could curl around the fae like a shield. “It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have seen what she was becoming, but I was stupid enough to think she’d get better once she was power. Once she no longer had to worry about any enemies.”

“You loved her.” It’s easy to see in the sorrow and bitterness reflected in the bard’s eyes as he remembered the woman he’d followed.

“I thought I did.”

“That’s why she wants you to stay here with her.”

Jaskier’s expression turned tired, frustrated. “She thinks that if I stay here that I’ll remember what it was like when we first met. That I’ll be able to overlook all that she’s done--all the blood and pain and misery--and go back to being her loyal soldier and entertainer.”

They stared at each other within the warmth of their temporary shelter, hidden away from the violence churning outside. It was obvious that they wouldn’t be able to stay here forever, that the morning had come and with it the new threat of the Countess’ next challenge. 

Geralt knew that this trial would be even more brutal than the last. His success so far ensured that the Countess would be even more dedicated to destroying him to prevent him from taking Jaskier away. Knowing the truth of their relationship adding an additional element to the twisted world he’d stepped into. She saw Geralt as being the only thing standing between herself and the rose-tinted love affair she’d once had with Jaskier.

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he failed the next test.

“Jaskier,” he whispered, “if I don’t win--”

“Don’t.” The fae’s voice is sharp, an inhuman power behind the word. “Don’t even think about it.”

“If I don’t win,” Geralt continued evenly, “I want you to get out of here. There’s feainnewedd in my pack. If you can get access to my belongings, you can get back to the mortal world. You can stay out of her hands and be free.”

“There is no freedom without you.”

The Witcher stared at him, heart twisting in his chest at the certainty in Jaskier’s expression. At the raw and visceral rejection of moving forward without Geralt there with him. It felt like he would collapse beneath the weight of all the emotions burning there.

“Jaskier, I--”

They both flinched at the sharp knock at the door. A moment later, he heard the guard’s voice call through the wood. “My apologies, but the Countess has requested the Witcher’s presence in her chambers.”

Both of them tensed at the implication of the fae leader summoning him. 

Jaskier reached out to link their hands together, squeezing tightly enough to hurt but Geralt didn’t protest. “She can’t hurt you directly while you’re still involved in the challenge,” he said, “It would be considered cheating.”

Geralt huffed out a laugh. “But she can use a nue to murder me?”

“The nue was the challenge--whether you lived or died was up to you.” The fae glanced at the door and pursed his lips, eyes flicking back to Geralt. “Don’t eat or drink anything she gives you. Just because it’s against the rules doesn’t mean she won’t try to kill you if she gets a chance.”

“Charming.”

Geralt sat up and padded across the floor towards the dresser to find some clothing. He could feel Jaskier’s eyes tracing over the exposed skin and smirked a little at the pleasant tingle left in their wake. He knew the fae was probably enjoying the sight of the bruises he’d sucked into the Witcher’s pale flesh the night before and wasn’t surprised when he felt Jaskier leave the bed to lean against Geralt’s back.

“Be careful,” he murmured softly, “I don’t like this.”

Geralt rested his hand on Jaskier’s. “I’ve beaten everything she’s thrown at me so far. All I have to do is do it one more time.”

The fae remained silent as Geralt pulled on a pair of pants and a loose shirt that he didn’t bother to tuck into his pants. If the Countess was going to call him out of the bedroom, she would have to deal with his less than courtly appearance.

By the time Geralt was shoving his feet into his boots, the guard was knocking on the door again, impatient. 

The Witcher scowled and stepped toward the door only to stop when Jaskier’s hand wrapped around his arm. When he looked back, Jaskier’s expression was fervent. 

“Whatever happens…” he said, “It has been the greatest honor in my long life to know you, Geralt of Rivia.”

Throat thick with emotions, Geralt dragged Jaskier forward into his arms and buried his face in the curve of the fae’s neck. “I love you.”

Another knock--louder now--and Geralt forced himself to relax his hold and step away. He stared at the fae’s face, memorizing the familiar features. Jaskier remained inhumanly still, vibrating with the need to follow.

“I’ll come back,” he swore, “I’ll win this for you.”

Jaskier smiled faintly. “I know you will.”

Geralt nodded and turned to walk through the door before he gave in to the temptation to return to their bed and the safety of Jaskier’s arms.

* * *

The Countess’ suite was set in the heart of the castle, overlooking the inner courtyard. Her doorway was carved out of the core of some massive oak whose roots dug into the marble floors like nature was trying to reclaim the space. He watched, surprised, as a tiny bud on one of the green vines growing there furled open to reveal a white flower that glowed with an unnatural light.

He wondered if he’d ever stop being surprised at the beauty fae magic could produce.

The guards signalled for him to stop in the hallway outside while they knocked gently at the door. Before they could announce who was calling, a haughty voice called out through the door. “Enter.”

Geralt walked past the two silent fae and pushed open the heavy door to enter the room. Inside was as opulent as he expected after witnessing the lavish parties the Countess hosted. Pale wooden furniture carved with delicate designs and elegant craftsmanship were scattered through the room as though waiting for use--though he doubted many dared to linger here. He eyed the colorful tapestries depicting glorious battles embroidered out of pure silk. His eyes lingered on the figures of a bloodstained Countess and the dark-clad warrior at her side.

“Glorious, isn’t he?” He turned to find the Countess looking at the same scene. “Watching him fight was like witnessing a song in motion.”

Today, the fae was in a gown far simpler than any of the clothing she preferred when she held court. The skirts were a navy blue that seemed to be designed to make her skin glow. It was slit high up one side and detached from the bodice so a strip of skin appeared whenever she moved. Her shoulders were left bare, covered only by the pale silk of her hair.

He tried not to snarl at the sight of her.

“What do you want?”

She smirked a little at his sharp tone. “I can see why Jaskier likes you. He never had any patience for the diplomatic approach.”

It brought to mind the night he’d watched an inn burn because it’s owner dared to renege on a deal. 

“I hope you didn’t bring me here to listen to you talk about the good old days.”

“No,” she said, walking over to a lounge chair and stretching out over the decadent cushions. “I’m here to discuss the challenges and how you will leave before the next.”

Geralt frowned. “Why would I do that?”

She met his gaze steadily, ignoring his disdain. “You must know by now that there is no hope for your success. I’d like to avoid the...unpleasantness that would come from killing you in front of Jaskier.”

“Not going to happen,” he bit out, snorting in derision, before offering sweetly, “You could always just let us go.”

Magic crackled through the air around her like the static before a lightning strike. “Do not test my patience, Witcher.”

He met her snarl with one of his own. “Do not test my dedication, fae.”

“You may live longer than the average human, but you are still a child to us,” she spat. “Jaskier will grow tired of you soon enough. He will come back to me like he always does when he gets tired of whatever weak pleasure your world can provide.”

“He won’t.”

“Even if he doesn’t, how long do you think it will take before you fall to some beast or creature in one of your hunts?” Her smile turned cruel, wicked. “You can’t possibly think I would let you live your life without any interference, do you? I have all the time in the world to plan my revenge.”

Geralt watched her with narrowed eyes, gritting his teeth. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t true, that they would be safe within the world of the Continent. 

_ Witchers don’t retire. _ His earlier words seemed to haunt him.

Was he just dooming Jaskier to walk the Path alone for the rest of his long life by continuing to fight the Countess? Jaskier’s support meant that he would be outcast from these lands forever. It would never be safe for him to return so long as the Countess was alive. What kind of life was he dooming the fae to live?

He thought of the desperation in Jaskier’s face when he heard the hounds starting their hunt and the way he’d fought so hard to keep Geralt out of the Countess’ grasp. It helped chase away the last of doubt she’d implanted in his mind. Whatever regrets Jaskier might have had, none of them came from traveling with Geralt.

“I’m going to win this and I’m going to take him from you,” Geralt growled, stepping close enough that he felt her magic stirring in the air around him. “You can’t stop me.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“Even if I don’t beat the last of your challenges, he’ll never come back to you. You’ve lost him. For good.”

“If you think that mark on your arm will keep you safe, you’re even more of a fool than I thought,” she hissed, eyes flashing with an inhuman light. “I should kill you where you stand.”

Geralt frowned, distracted by her comment. “What do you mean ‘that mark’?”

The Countess opened her mouth to answer, but then she stopped, considered him for a beat, and slowly smiled. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“It’s just our bargain mark,” he said and tried to ignore the growing suspicion that he’d overlooked something important.

She threw back her head and laughed, cruel and delighted in equal parts. “He never told you,” she snickered. “Even after all that time following him around like an overgrown dog.”

“They appeared after the first bargain we made. It just shows that we have a deal.”

“Tell me, Witcher,” she said, “do you think we mark everyone who makes a bargain with one of our kind?”

He remained silent, bristling under her scorn.

“It’s true that occasionally a fae might mark someone who owes them something so another one of our kind doesn’t kill or attempt to strike a new deal with them, but no fae is dumb enough to make it so visible. Or bother with making more than one deal with a mortal. They’d never live long enough to repay the debt.”

Geralt looked down at the intricate mark lining his arm, tracing the familiar whorls and delicate flower petals with his eyes.

The Countess stood in a soft rustle of silks and stalked closer, reaching out to grab Geralt’s arm before he could yank it away. She pulled up the edge of his sleeve so his arm was exposed to the soft light of the room. Her lip curled in disgust and he fought not to wince when her nails bit into his skin.

“He probably branded you like you humans do cattle when you first bargained, I imagine. He never did like to share.” His skin itched beneath her grip and it took all of his control not to yank his hand away. That awful magic built in the air around them and he wondered if Jaskier had been right to believe she wouldn’t actually kill him. “All he really did was use his magic to hide the truth from you.”

Without warning, she dragged her finger down the length of his inner forearm. Pain blossomed in its wake and he bit back a curse as it felt like the flesh itself was burning. 

Instead, the skin around the dark lines of the tattoo burst into riotous color as more lines of the tattoo seemed to paint itself into his skin. A bright pink peony nestled itself in a complicated mix of heather, buttercups, and leafy ferns. They curled around the darker lines to fill in the entirety of his forearm, disappearing beneath the edge of his sleeve. Each of the flowers shifted faintly as though reacting to an unseen breeze and he watched, fascinated, as a small honey bee crawled out of sight beneath a broad leaf.

It was perhaps the first time his skin had earned a mark that wasn’t a scar.

“This is no bargain tattoo,” she spat, jerking her hand away from his. “It’s a fucking soul mark.”

“Soul mark,” he repeated dully.

“Yes, you knuckle-dragging ape. A soul mark. A physical manifestation of the link between the two of you.”

Dizzy, Geralt stepped back, eyes fixed on the bright colors along his arm. With each breath, he seemed to piece together the information he’d discounted over the last two years. It felt so obvious now.

Valdo’s reaction in the tavern when he saw Geralt’s arm.

Jaskier’s possessiveness.

The way Jaskier had responded to Geralt’s touch.

He’d been the only one who didn’t realize why the fae had been so interested in him. Abruptly, the fact that Jaskier had wanted to stay on the Path with him without ever forcing him to repay the debt. Geralt had assumed it was boredom that kept the bard from settling down into one of the larger cities instead of risking his life--and wardrobe--following a Witcher from shit hole to shit hole.

And last night...Jaskier had said he loved him. Jaskier had tried to keep him far away from the Countess. Now he realized that this was less about keeping him safe from other fae and more about keeping her from noticing just who Geralt was to him. 

“I can’t decide if it’s more amusing--watching your tiny brain attempt to understand this or thinking about what it will be like for you to realize that Jaskier must not have told you for a reason.”

Geralt looked over at her, feeling like a man attempting to tread water. “All this means is that you have even less of a chance to keep him here with you,” he said, smirking at her. “He’ll always want to come back to me.”

She bared her teeth in a snarl. “He will if you’re dead.”

“I think we both know that’s no longer true.”

Before she could respond, he turned on his heel and left.

* * *

Geralt knew there would be hell to pay for leaving the Countess like that. He’d thrown a figurative gauntlet in her path after she’d already suffered through the indignity of losing two challenges in a row. She was looking for a way to get her revenge--he just had to hope he and Jaskier would be long gone before then.

With that in mind, he followed the guards back through the maze of hallways towards the cell that served as his prison between challenges. He’d hoped that they might lead him back to the bedroom where he’d left Jaskier that morning, but knew it wouldn’t be long before the fae found him again.

Before his  _ soul mate _ found him again.

The idea was so impossible, so fantastical that he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around it. Soul mates were the stuff of legend and fairy tales--not something that happened in reality. Even with all that Witchers knew, he’d never heard any confirmed cases in all the years they’d been recording strange happenings on the Continent.

The sound of the door opening again came a moment before a familiar figure stepped inside with two plates piled high with mouth watering foods. “I have come bearing gifts,” Stryker announced with dramatic flair, “The cook swore she’d have my hide if I tried to steal food from her again, but I assured her that the flesh was practically falling off your  _ bones _ and--”

“Did you know?” he interrupted before he’d even come into the room.

Stryker frowned. “Know what?”

“That we were soul mates.” Geralt raised his arm to show his tattoo and paced forward in a burst of agitated energy. “That this mark wasn’t about bargains at all--it’s our bond!”

Carefully, the fae settled the food onto the dresser nearby and watched Geralt with a neutral expression. “Who told you?” he finally asked. It was as much a confirmation as anything.

“The fucking  _ Countess _ .”

Geralt paced away from him, running his fingers through his hair. Somehow having Stryker agree with the Countess made it seem like more of a reality.

“How is this even possible?” the Witcher said in a strained voice. “There’s no way this can be real. Soul mates are just stories bards like to tell to get into someone’s pants.”

“Judging by the hickey on your neck, I’d say it worked.” Stryker grinned at Geralt’s gimlet stare and sat down on the bed. “For fae, it’s incredibly rare, but it happens every few generations. Finding your soulmate is something all of us hope for--even if we know it’s nearly impossible. I’m sure more of my kind will want to go into the mortal lands in search of their own after seeing Jaskier find you.”

“So that’s what the tattoo means? That I’m his soul mate?”

The fae’s eyes dropped to the brightly colored art on his skin. “There’s usually some kind of symbol that appears after you touch for the first time. I didn’t expect it to be so ornate.”

Geralt reached out to touch it, still startled by the realism. He could make out the tiny veins in each flower petal and the faint marks of discoloration lurking beneath the darker hues. “Why couldn’t I see the whole mark?”

“My guess? Jaskier probably was trying to keep anyone from showing too much attention to you. He’s well known enough that any soul mate of his would automatically have a target on their back. People already notice Witchers--they would definitely notice this new addition.”

“Is...Does this...?” He couldn’t seem to complete the thought. What if all that he felt for Jaskier was nothing but a symptom of this mark? How could he trust the ache in his heart or the words spoken in the height of passion?

Stryker rolled his eyes at the Witcher, huffing out an exasperated breath. “You mortals are always so convinced that magic will take away your choice,” he said. “The soul bond is just an indication of compatibility. You could have just as easily become friends or even dedicated enemies.”

Geralt considered the way he’d felt when he first met Jaskier. There certainly hadn’t been some inescapable draw to fuck the fae in that moment. He’d noticed Jaskier was attractive, but he’d been more concerned with surviving the encounter and getting away from the fickle immortal.

“The reaction is stronger for us, anyway,” Stryker continued, “We’re more in tune with the pull of chaos than any mortal breed. Jaskier probably didn’t realize why until after you touched for the first time. In the early days of my kind, the mark on your arm would have been enough to keep you safe from any fae.”

The Countess clearly didn’t hold with the old ways.

He nodded absently, finally sitting on the bed. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with this.”

Stryker hummed thoughtfully and nudged the tray of food toward him. “Well,” he said gently, “I would focus more on staying alive long enough to actually ‘deal with it’. Jaskier has known what you are to him for some time now. He can wait a little longer.”

The Witcher grunted and grabbed one of the skewers of meat on the tray. It was perfectly cooked and he wished he weren’t so distracted so he could enjoy the bold spices. The irony of finally having plenty of delicious food, but being in mortal peril wasn’t lost on him.

They remained quietly eating on his bed until the plate was empty. He was pathetically grateful that the other fae didn’t press him to talk further about his meeting with the Countess or the soul bond with Jaskier. All he could seem to do was think up more questions than answers.

Eventually, he forced his mind away from the tangled mess of his relationship with Jaskier. None of that would matter if he couldn’t survive the next challenge. Now that he’d offended the Countess and practically dared her to kill him, he knew it would be brutal.

“Any rumors about what the next task will be?” he asked Stryker.

The fae shook his head. “After the last challenge, she’s been careful not to give away any clues that I could use to help you.”

It reminded him of the way the other fae had helped Jaskier reach the edge of the course and bring back Geralt’s lost memories. While Jaskier and Geralt were protected by the rules of the trials and the Countess’ favor, Stryker was open to whatever cruelties she could produce. He eyed the fae for any sign of injuries discreetly.

“Thank you,” he said softly, “for helping him get to me.”

A shrug. “We have a bargain, remember?”

Geralt considered him for another beat. “Why are you willing to risk so much to get rid of her?”

Stryker was quiet for so long that Geralt assumed he wasn’t going to answer. Then, with a voice rough with grief, he said, “My parents used to be the rulers of this land. I’m sure you can imagine what must have happened when she took control.”

Abruptly, the other fae’s hatred for the bard made sense. “Jaskier helped her do it.”

Stryker nodded, lips flat.

“How did you survive?”

“I was young enough that she thought I could be ‘useful’ to her. My presence reminds everyone that she is powerful enough to topple ancient families.” The fae’s expression went terribly blank, hands toying with the forgotten piece of fruit in his hands. “I’m just another form of entertainment.”

The bleakness in his expression made Geralt’s stomach curdle. He couldn’t imagine being forced to live in the household of the person responsible for killing his family. 

“We’ll kill her,” he said fiercely and was rewarded with Stryker looking up in surprise. “She won’t escape this.”

Stryker opened his mouth, but stopped at the sounds of raised voices in the corridor outside. They both frowned, listening to several pairs of footsteps shifting around as the guards reacting to whoever was speaking. Geralt shot Stryker a look and they moved closer to the door. 

The fae tugged it open and looked over at the single guard left behind by his fellows. “What’s going on?”

The guard looked younger than the others, unnaturally pale eyes wide with excitement. He looked over at the Witcher curiously, clearly torn between his orders to make sure he stayed in his cell and the urge to talk about what was happening in the floors above. 

“Kip and the others heard there’s something big happening in the great hall,” he said breathlessly, “I’m not sure what.”

Stryker glanced over at the Witcher before clapping the younger fae on the shoulder. “We’ll just have to get a look.”

“I’m not supposed to leave the prisoner--”

“And you won’t! We’ll bring him with us!” Stryker’s voice was cheerful even as he shot Geralt a look that had the Witcher falling into line behind the beleaguered guard and the other fae.

Maybe they could find out something useful for the next challenge as well.

The closer they came to the same massive room where the last challenge had taken place the louder it became. Voices were raised in a mixture of excitement, outrage, and enough malice that Geralt wished he had his weapons. It was obvious that something terrible had happened, but he wasn’t sure what.

They barely managed to step more than a few feet into the great hall before a voice called out over the noise of the crowd.

“Ah, Witcher,” the Countess said, “I was just about to send for you.”

Immediately, a deadly silence fell over the crowd and he felt the weight of all their eyes fall on him. He stepped into the empty space at the center of the room warily.

Unlike the previous day, the great hall was decorated with the elegant opulence he remembered from his first day in the fae court. There was no sign of anything that would indicate another challenge, but maybe she intended to hold the trial outside again. He looked up at the ceiling suspiciously, but even the enchanted sky was quiet. The scent of something burning filled the air, but he couldn’t find the source. He scanned the crowd as he walked for some sign of Jaskier, but couldn’t pick him out of the mass of faces.

Geralt stopped a few yards away from the dias where the Countess was seated and tried not to glare. She was dressed in an austere black tunic and pants overlaid with silver armor that reminded him of the kind Calanthe had preferred when she held her own banquet. The fae queen was stretched across her massive throne, one leg tossed over the arm of the chair in an indolent sprawl. In her hands, she toyed with a small dagger that shone mirror bright in the light of the massive chandeliers.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” she continued, drawing out the suspense. “I assumed you would have tried to flee our lands by now.”

“I have one more challenge left. I won’t leave until I’ve won.”

Her smile remained lazy, eyes fixed on him like some jungle cat. The lack of reaction on her face made Geralt’s stomach churn. There was something he was missing, but what?

“Bring him.” 

With a wave of her hand, she gestured to a cluster of guards carrying a stretcher between them. Geralt thought she’d been addressing him, but the soldiers moved closer with their strange burden balanced between them. They carefully set it down on the ground between Geralt and the throne before returning to their place at the edge of the room.

“Well, Witcher,” she said, “what do you think?”

At first, he doesn’t recognize what he’s looking at.

The body is vaguely humanoid even with most of it covered in black burns. It took effort to pick out the body parts that are curled together in a fetal position in a failed attempt to protect himself from the attack that must have killed it. The clothing was little more than ash marking the fabric of the stretcher. Whatever hair or features that could be used to identify it are burnt to a crisp and his nostrils were full of the sickly sweet stench of cooked flesh. 

He glanced back uneasily and spotted Stryker looking just as confused behind him. At least he could be sure that the Countess hadn’t attacked him in an effort to punish Geralt for his disrespect. It settled some of the rising tension in him that at least one of his allies was safe.

The Countess’ smile widened when he looked back at her for some sort of indication of who, or what, he was looking at. She stood and stalked across the floor to stop next to the body. “What a shame,” she murmured, “he was so dedicated to you after all.”

Immediately, a new horror filled Geralt as he looked back at the body for any clues as to who she’d killed. There was no sign of another Wolf medallion around the corpse’s neck, but he supposed that would be easy enough to take away. It was too large to be the child surprise he’d left behind in Cintra and he couldn’t imagine the Countess would bother with a child he’d never met if she was trying to hurt him. 

Who was it then? Borsch? Mousesack?

Almost casually the Countess nudged the body with the tip of her silk slipper, pushing it over so the face was exposed, frozen in a state of perpetual anguish. Geralt’s felt his heart slow as he looked over the mouth open in a final scream before catching sight of the lifeless eyes.

The lifeless  _ blue _ eyes.

Shaking his head, he took a step back as nausea roiled in his gut. “N--no…”

“Oh yes,” she assured with a dramatic pout. “My guards caught him trying to escape through one of the fairy rings this morning--”

No. She had to be lying.

“--Perhaps he was beginning to doubt your ability to succeed in the challenges, my dear. Such a shame.”

_ Jaskier _ .

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the mother of all cliff hangers.


	25. Chapter 25

His knees hit the marble floor with a dull throb of pain.

His eyes remained fixed to the burnt husk of the body in front of him, mind trying to find some sort of connection between it and the soft smiles and lean muscles of the fae he’d woken up tangled up with.

_I like waking up with you._

His fingers twitched at his side, digging into the muscles of his thigh until the bruise.

_I love you._

He thought of the strange fantasy they’d imagined hours before. It felt like he could feel it slipping through his fingers like smoke, tangling with the horrific scent of burnt flesh.

_Whatever happens...it has been the greatest honor of my long life to know you._

Geralt closed his eyes, tears dripping down his cheeks unchecked. Their last words together this morning were never meant to be the last. They were supposed to have years to prepare for this morning. They were supposed to--

“It is a shame,” the Countess said in a tone that indicated it was anything but, “after all that you’ve survived.”

Her boots were scuffed, he thought absently, and stained at the toe. As though she’d walked through the same liquid that was still seeping into the marble. It matched the marks on her hands and still flecked the metal of the knife in her hand.

His eyes seemed to fix on each mark marring the silver of the blade, unable to look away.

“With Jaskier dead, there’s no reason for you to remain within my lands.” She came to a stop a few feet away from him, barely glancing at the body of the fae she’d murdered. The fae she’d once claimed to _love_. “There’s no reason for us to be burdened with your presence any longer.”

The Countess extended her hand and dropped the tiny bloom cradled in her palm to the floor. Absently, he tracked the movement, eyes fixed on the tried, crumpled remains of the feainnewedd as it fell beside his hand. It felt like a slap in the face to see the broken remains of his hope for escaping with Jaskier at his side.

He reached out, ash stained fingers brushing over the plant, and dragged it against his chest like he could protect it from the taint of her touch. His eyes burn and he shifted closer to Jaskier’s ruined body, arching over him like a wounded animal. He wondered if there would ever come a time when he didn’t feel this yawning chasm within his chest or the sensation of feeling like he was missing something. Something he now knew he’d never replace.

“Your belongings are waiting for you beside the portal outside.” There was satisfaction in her eyes as she gestured lazily toward the door. “Go and do not return.”

Over the sound of his gasping, wretched breaths, he could hear the rumbling of the crowd. They continued to move restlessly, eyes moving back and forth between the Countess and the bard’s body. She ignored them to continue reveling in the obvious devastation on the Witcher’s face.

He reached out once more with a shaking hand, trying not to flinch at the sensation of touching the flaking skin. It was a glaring contrast to the warm body of the fae moving against him last night. With each lung full of charred muscle and broken dreams, he could feel his memories of the time he’d had with Jaskier disappearing. 

It was like his mind had stopped the moment he’d realized just **what** who he was looking at. 

His _soulmate_. Gone as quickly as the knowledge of what he’d had and now lost. 

He looked down at the black lines against his skin, shifting to dig his nails into the familiar pattern. Blood beaded along the red marks dragging behind his fingertips. His eyes burned as he watched the ink begin to fade--like the magic couldn’t last without Jaskier’s power feeding into it. 

How could he ever find the strength to get up? What reason did he have now? There was no smirking fae to tease and confound him in equal measure. All that was left was the neverending Path and the empty hole left behind by Jaskier’s missing laughter and quick smiles. He was alone again. Forever, this time.

He barely reacted when Stryker’s booted feet came to a stop beside him. “You’ve broken the rules of the bargain,” he growled at the Countess, losing the thin veneer of disinterest that marked his interactions with her. 

The Countess’ eyes snapped to the other fae while the others fell into a shocked silence. “Are you accusing me of cheating?” she asked in a dangerously even voice.

“You’ve destroyed the prize that the Witcher was meant to be rewarded with.”

She threw her hands out in a dismissive gesture. “It was obvious that he would never have succeeded. Am I supposed to allow someone to attempt to break the laws of this land just because a mortal was foolish enough to enter into a challenge with me?”

“Jaskier would never have left when his soulmate was still trapped here.” Stryker’s announcement sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. The sounds of their voice seemed to sharpen, shock and disapproval growing. “He should have been protected.”

Her eyes darted around the room as the sound of their discontent seemed audible to her for the first time. She frowned, narrowing her eyes at Stryker like he was at fault for it. “He was a criminal. He broke our laws.”

“On whose word? Yours?”

“Choose your next words wisely, Stryker,” she growled, magic gathering like a storm around her. “You will not challenge me and walk away.”

Stryker stared back at her, unmoving. “You killed an innocent member of your court,” he said as the room around them went painfully silent. “All because you knew that you wouldn’t be able to defeat the Witcher at your own game.”

“You _dare--_ ”

“Worse,” he continued steadily with a vicious little snarl, “you’ve broken one of our oldest laws and murdered a member of a mated pair.”

The words landed like a slap and she stiffened, anger flashing across her face. She glared down where Geralt remained on his knees beside Jaskier’s ruined body and something close to madness seemed to overtake her.

“The Witcher is a _mortal_ ,” she hissed, “He is not protected by our laws. A soul bond can’t exist between a fae and a lesser species.”

“ _Jaskier_ is--was a fae,” Stryker returned. He stepped forward, subtly coming between the Countess and the unmoving Witcher. Geralt noted the rising tension between the two with a dull sort of apathy. “You had no authority to kill him.”

“I am your sovereign. I’ve taken my authority at the tip of a sword--or have you forgotten?” Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the weapon still in her hand.

Despite her threatening posture, it was obvious that the Countess had not expected to face such a response from her own court. It made Geralt wonder if anyone had ever truly attempted to overthrow her once Jaskier had helped her take the throne--or if the threat of the combined might of Jaskier and her own power was enough to keep a rebellion at bay. He wondered if she’d been losing her grip on that control ever since Jaskier had returned to the mortal world and if that had been the real reason for why she’d wanted him to return. That, and jealousy.

Stryker’s next words confirmed his suspicions. “Without him, how long do you think that will last?” he asked in a silky soft voice.

The Countess’ eye flicked between them before narrowing on Stryker. “I should have killed you all those years ago.”

“Yes,” Stryker agreed. “You should have.”

“Are you challenging me?”

The fae started to open his mouth to respond, but it was Geralt who answered.

“Yes,” he said in a voice hoarse with smothered screams.

Immediately, the weight of the room’s eyes fell on him. He reached out to brush his fingers over Jaskier’s cheekbone, closing his eyes against the grief that seemed to burrow deeper into his chest. It felt like he should be able to close his eyes and return to the peace of this morning. That he could erase the scent of burning flesh with the soft scent of sweat and chamomile and lavender.

Geralt slowly pushed himself up to his full height across from the Countess. Beside him, he could feel Stryker assessing him like he was trying to decide if Geralt was capable of completing their bargain or if he would fall apart at the first step.

“You?” she scoffed and tossed her head back in a laugh that echoed around the room like shards of broken glass. “You are _nothing_. A child. A pestering gnat that is not worth the amount of effort it would take to swat you from the sky.”

“I was his,” Geralt rasped, “That’s enough.”

Her magic grew in the air around him until it was almost impossible to breathe. It felt like they were breathing through the heat of some vast oven and pressed against them like a weight urging him to return to his knees.

“You’re a fool,” she spat, sneering at him. “Do you think I would hesitate to destroy you?”

He forced his muscles to move, to ready himself for the battle he knew was coming. His eyes remained fixed on her as he stepped past Jaskier’s corpse in a prowling gate. Stryker’s footsteps followed in his periphery, but he ignored the other fae. Like any wolf, he knew how to hunt in a pack even if he had no intention of sharing the thrill of the kill.

There was no silver sword strapped to his back, but he decided to make do with the sword at Stryker’s side. He reached out and drew it from the fae’s sheath in a smooth movement and settled his weight evenly. His lungs filled with the scent of burning flesh and released in a slow, steady rush.

He stepped forward.

The Countess’ magic snapped out--fast as a striking snake--and he didn’t bother to do more than tilt his body to the side so it passed by harmlessly, close enough to ruffle his hair. He continued steadily forward, eyes still fixed on the woman who’d destroyed his heart and burned it from his chest.

Her next attack sliced through the air like a thunderclap and he was forced to use Quen to keep it from tearing him apart. The force of it sent him sliding back several feet, but he only gritted his teeth and continued forward. 

Stryker’s magic shot through the air like dark smoke, yanking the Countess’ arm back when she went to attack Geralt again. It forced her to divide her attention between both of her opponents and gave Geralt enough time to move within striking distance. 

His sword flashed as it arced through the air and she was forced to block the attack with the small dagger she carried, baring her teeth in effort to keep herself from collapsing beneath the weight of the blow. He disengaged in a neat sweep and immediately moved to attack again, battering her with continual strikes. Despite this, he was reminded of the fact that the Countess had won her crown on the battlefield as she used the inhuman strength of a fae to keep him from being able to use his larger size to his advantage.

They moved across the floor, farther away from Jaskier’s body, in a mixture of sword fighting and magical attacks. He wasn’t nearly as talented as Eskel was at casting signs, but Stryker was clever enough to use his own magic to keep her from gaining an advantage. The fae was quick to sweep in any time Geralt was forced back or when his Quen began to crack.

The Countess threw him back with a grunt, clothing rumpled from the fight. “What do you hope to gain, Witcher?” she panted. “Are you going to try to take my crown in some poorly planned revenge scheme?”

“I’m going to kill you,” he replied. “I don’t give a fuck about your crown.”

She let out a vicious laugh that felt like claws sliding between his ribs. “Even if you could kill me, do you think it will bring him back?”

He staggered and she took advantage of his distraction to stab into his side, managing to twist the knife once before pulling it free. Geralt grunted and pressed his freehand to the wound to try to staunch the bleeding. The familiar sensation of warm blood seeping into the fabric of his shirt helped distract him from the pain of the truth in her question.

“What will it be like to go to sleep each night knowing you failed to keep your soulmate alive?” she continued, using words like a weapon. “Do you think you’ll ever get used to the sensation? I’m told most mated pairs are unable to survive after their partner dies. How long do you think you’ll last before you rid us of your useless presence for good?”

Before he could regain his footing, the Countess’ magic swept out and struck him like shards of ice, burrowing into his limbs until they felt like they were going numb. It threw him back and he landed awkwardly, barely managing to hold on to his weapon. 

Stryker started forward to try to help him, but she lashed out with a gesture that sent him slamming bodily against one of the nearby columns. Then, her attention returned to Geralt.

“He cried for you, you know?” she said in a voice low enough not to carry over to the crowd, walking closer. “At the end. He screamed and begged me to let you live. To let you go after all the trouble you’ve caused. He even promised me that he would stay here once more.” Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in golden waves as she crouched down next to him to whisper, “Do you know what I told him?”

Geralt stared up at her, breathing through the pain and fury in jagged gasps. Silent.

“ _No_.”

He roared, fighting his way back to his feet and throwing his arm out in a quickly cast Aard. It hit her hard enough to send her skidding across the ground and giving him enough time to launch another series of attacks. Her eyes went wide when he twisted his weapon in a practiced move that sent her knife flying through the air to land uselessly among the crowd.

Before she could gather her magic for another attack, he threw the last of his power into a Quen shield that pressed her into the ground until the air left her lungs in a rush. He rested the tip of his sword against the hollow of her throat and watched her realize that he’d beaten her.

Geralt raised his sword in preparation for the final blow. 

The Countess stared up at him with hate-filled eyes and blood stained teeth. “Killing me won’t bring him back,” she said, “He’ll always be here with me. He’s mine--just like he always was. I’ll _never_ let you have him.”

His eyes drifted over to the blackened corpse a few yards away and his heart turned to stone 

The sword slid home between her ribs, piercing the marble behind her and pinning her to the ground permanently. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the weapon, lips curled in his own snarl.

He watched with grim satisfaction as the hateful light in her eyes flickered and began to fade. Her lungs slowly emptied in a soft sigh and her body went limp as her power left her to return to the earth. 

That quickly, the Countess was dead.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all hate the Countess as much as I do.
> 
> Next chapter should be the finale!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to check out some of my other one shots or completed stories while you're waiting on the next update--I specialize in angst, whump, and feral bards. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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